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UNDER THE CORSICAN 



EMILY HOWLAND HOPPIN 

AUTHOR OF “FROM OUT OF THE PAST,” ETC. 


DEC 1894) 


NEW YORK 

J. SELWIN TAIT AND SONS 

65 Fifth Avenue 





Copyright, 1894, by 
EMILY HOWLAND HOPPIN 


All rights reserved 


^0 


RICHARD S. GREENOUGH, Esq. 


My dear Mr. Greenough : 

IVhen these pages reach you in your studio in Rome, I 
trust that you 'will read in their dedication a slight tribute 
of my affection, and the -warm remembrance of old studio 
days at home. 

Faithfully yours, 

EMILY HOtVLAND HOPPIN. 

December ist, 1894. 




UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


CHAPTER I, 

On a dark, wet night, somewhere about the end 
of March, in the year of our Lord 1804, several 
young men were gathered together in an upper 
room of a small, dingy-looking house that stood 
crowded between two taller ones in the now ex- 
tinct Rue des Trois Canettes, which inconspicuous 
thoroughfare was then to be found amid the devi- 
ous ways of the ever-populous Isle of St. Louis, 
that lies, with all its teeming denizens, within the 
very heart of the city of Paris. This narrow 
street, with many others, has long since been 
swept away by the march of modern improvement, 
and the site of its picturesque old houses is at 
present occupied by the new and imposing Hotel 
Dieu. At the time of which we write, however, 
the passage was both contracted and crooked, and 
5 


6 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


many of the dwellings along its length were tim- 
ber-fronted and gable-roofed, while over them all 
there lay an air of unarrested deca5^ 

The time-worn building to which the attention 
of the reader is directed was a tavern or “ cabaret,” 
a small pot-house frequented mostly by the work- 
ing people ; but it was clean and neat within the 
mouldering walls, and an atmosphere of cheerful 
bustle usually animated the interior. Without, a 
miniature pine-tree placed above the door testified 
to the owner’s trade, the branches, though dead and 
russet-colored, supplementing the words on the 
weather-beaten signboard that called attention 
both to the “ Commerce de Vins” and to the hos- 
pitable intent of the “ Sapin Vert.” To the right 
of the entrance a bracket of curling iron supported 
a lantern, and after dark, lights twinkled also from 
behind the small leaded panes that looked out on 
to the street. A cavernous portal led to the court- 
yard in the rear that was perpetually encumbered 
with household superfluities. The inn was so 
squeezed between its neighbors that its lines were 
uncertain, and it looked as though held up by their 
supporting walls; and being over-to'pped by the 
greater height it appeared smaller than it really 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


7 


was. The constant dripping of water that ran 
unchecked from a broken stone spout left streaks 
of green and other discoloration upon the surface 
of the masonry. Thus its outward appearance 
was not particularly prepossessing, and the low- 
ceiled room where the little company was assem- 
bled was plain almost to bareness. 

Though the pleasant days of early spring were 
near at hand, the temperature on the evening in 
question was far more indicative of the winter 
season ; and the pile of rain-soaked cloaks thrown 
carelessly over a chair in the corner of the 
apartment witnessed to the violence of a drenching 
storm. 

Only a matter of urgent business or of eagerly 
desired pleasure could have tempted the young 
men to come together on such a night. They 
were darkly dressed, and, though much bespat- 
tered with the clinging Paris mud, there was 
still something in their bearing and in their gen- 
eral appearance that betokened a higher station 
in life than was in keeping with their present sim- 
ple, not to say penurious, surroundings. Had the 
condition of their finances warranted it, they 
would have undoubtedly sought a more luxurious 


8 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


trysting-place, and we might have looked for them 
successfully in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, that 
haunt of the truly aristocratic; but the wheel of 
fortune has brought about strange things in its 
revolutions, and Anatole d’Harcourt, in whose 
room the meeting took place, was b)^ no means the 
only scion of the old nobility who was forced to 
content himself with very humble quarters. 

The modest hostelry in the Rue des Trois 
Canettes was kept by one Amand Gourtain, who 
had been formerly a valet in the service of the old 
Marquis d’Harcourt, Anatole’s father; but when 
the Revolution came, sweeping everything before 
it in a whirlwind of destruction, the nobleman 
lost his head and the servant his comfortable home 
at about the same time. The latter, however, 
having a mind of great adaptability as well as a 
thrifty soul, perceived that there were many frag- 
ments to be picked up from out of the wreck, and 
he forthwith adjusted his political creed to exist- 
ing necessities, and by watching his opportunities 
managed so well that circumstances favored him, 
and he was now doing a very pretty business as 
inn-keeper almost within the shadow of Notre 
Dame. He knew how to trim his sails to every 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


9 


wind, and he understood perfectly how to take 
up life just as he found it. Being a person of 
fickle moods, the “ Qa ira” of the Revolution and 
the “ Paris en vaudeville” of Ange Pitou, the pop- 
ular singer, found an equal response in his mobile 
nature; and just as he had given his devoted ser- 
vice to the nobility in the past, and as “ citoyen” 
his adherence to the bloody upholders of the Reign 
of Terror, he now, in the last days of the Consul- 
ate, was above all else a Bonapartist, — turncoat 
of course; but withal so genial and so plausible 
that a speedy forgiveness was ever forthcoming 
for his delinquencies. 

Balancing his position with nicety, he had al- 
ways been above reproach among the Republicans, 
and had yet managed from time to time to extend 
assistance to the family of his old master, which 
had fallen into dire extremity, but which still 
lived upon a corner of the old estate in Brittany, 
occupying a tumble-down stone house and existing 
upon a microscopic income. 

Whenever Anatole came to Paris he gladly de- 
scended at the Sapin Vert, for he was sure of find- 
ing there not only a welcome, but a good omelette 
and a pair of clean sheets as well; and Maitre 


lO 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


Gourtain was singularly forgetful in the matter of 
presenting accounts. 

Possibly, too, Anatole’s vanity was titillated by 
the obsequious manner with which he was served ; 
and it was certainly most gratifying to be waited 
upon as a gentleman should be. His clothes were 
carried away at night and were returned in the 
morning well brushed, and his linen was not only 
looked over and mended, but it was also when 
washed, starched and ironed to the last degree of 
perfection. It was far from displeasing also to 
have his hot water handed in by the pretty Ga- 
brielle, Amand’s daughter ; and when the young 
man was shaved, his host performed the impor- 
tant function himself while she stood by and held 
the shining copper “ bouillotte.” Thus it will be 
seen that ease and comfort were not altogether 
lacking even within the unpretending interior of 
the inn known as the “ Green Pine-tree.” 

The room in which the party gathered on that 
inclement night, though bare, was clean and de- 
cently furnished, and a porcelain stove did its best 
to temper the air and to overcome the draughts 
that caused the candles to sputter and run. The 
wind and rain howled and beat against the ill-fit- 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


II 


ting windows, and the raw chill of the Parisian 
atmosphere penetrated the apartment and caused 
the inmates to shiver as they sat about the table 
on which stood a light repast beside a couple of 
flasks of wine and a pack of cards. 

But though Anatole’s hand lay on the dice-box 
the young men were not playing, for their minds 
were occupied with a game of a widely different 
sort. As they listened to the storm raging furi- 
ously without, the draught drew up the chimney 
so well that the flames roared behind the brass- 
bound doors of the china stove; and, in the gloom 
of the dimly lighted room, the party drew closer 
together about the deal boards. Dismay and sor- 
row were written on their faces as they discussed 
in lowered tones the lamentable death of the young 
Due d’Enghien, the last hope of the Condes, that 
had but lately taken place, — a judicial murder at 
which the whole civilized world was to stand 
aghast. It was therefore no wonder that these 
young men, all patricians though miserably poor, 
should have been deeply moved by the cruel in- 
justice of his fate, and have resented as an insult 
to their own caste the arbitrary fiat that had ar- 
rested and finally brought him to his death. 


12 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


“ Ha!” cried Anatole angrily as his hand closed 
firmly over the unoffending cards. “ He has been 
made a victim to Bonaparte’s inexorable will. By 
all the laws of equity, his freedom should have re- 
mained inviolate beyond the frontier.” 

And Anatole was right. As his fingers clinched 
and his eyes flashed, a quick response came to him 
from the others. Muttered oaths and dark threats 
were uttered, and one of the party, a mere lad, 
started to his feet and flung his gentleman’s sword 
upon the table so that the good steel quivered and 
rang as it fell. “ I am ready!” he cried, then sank 
back abashed to his seat as he met the other’s quick 
glance. 

“ Peace, Raoul,” he said, fixing him with a look 
that made the boy quail. “ Here craft boots as 
much as steel. A rash act may ruin everything. 
‘All comes to those who know how to wait,’ ” he 
added, quoting the proverb. “ The murderer shall 
be hunted down, and vengeance sure and unre- 
lenting shall find him out. Trust me, and I will 
lead you.” 

As they looked at each other across the poor 
deal table their pale faces and trembling lips ap- 
peared ghastly in the dim light, and each one of 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


13 


the little company lived through again in thought 
the fateful night that had blotted the fair world 
from d’Enghien’s eyes and had ended in blood 
beneath the dark walls of Vincennes. 

At this late date it is hardly worth while to re- 
peat the tale, for the whole world knows how the 
unfortunate man was seized at the castle of Etten- 
heim in the Grand-Duchy of Baden, and hastened 
from thence to Vincennes. The arrest was made 
upon suspicion only, and adequate proof of his 
complicity in the plots endangering the First Con- 
sul’s life was never forthcoming; but an example 
was demanded, and though he denied all knowl- 
edge of the Chouan Cadoudal’s movements, he ad- 
mitted having been in Strasburg once or twice, 
and upon the strength of this alone the law effect- 
ing the “emigres” bearing arms against France 
was put in force to his perdition. Tried and con- 
demned at night, he was executed without delay. 
His death remains a dark blot upon Napoleon’s 
career. It was never justified even by those near- 
est to him, and posterity has taken even a harsher 
view than they did. 

In vain the beautiful Josephine had pleaded; in 
vain Hortense, Louis Bonaparte’s wife, had added 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


14 


her entreaties. The First Consul was obdurate. 

Laisse moi ; tu lies q'mie femme ; tu fi etne?ids rien a 
la politique f he said to the first. When the Sec- 
ond Consul Cambaceres advocated clemency, he 
received for a reply: “ Vous lies devemi bien avare 
du sang des Bourbons.” Therefore, the unhappy 
Prince was hastened to his doom, and the very 
soldiers who carried out the sentence were so 
much touched by the courage with which he died 
that they refused afterwards to rifle the corpse, 
although they had full permission to do so. The 
body, still clad in its uniform, was laid in an un- 
consecrated grave and hastily covered with earth; 
and before the morning sun arose the tragedy 
was completed and all trace of it removed. 

When you drop a stone into a pond and watch 
the widening circles, they soon disappear; but has 
it occurred to )mu that long after they are lost to 
sight they are in reality increasing until they 
break in a wash against the confines of the water? 
Events that move all parties with sudden and in- 
tense feeling also leave a wake behind them. 
Young d’Enghien’s melancholy fate thrilled all 
hearts, even those to whom he was politically op- 
posed, and among his own friends there were those 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


15 


who became not only saddened but desperate. 
Though Moreau and Pichegru had been arrested, 
and the authorities were in hot pursuit of Georges 
Cadoudal, the Chouan leader, the enemies of 
Bonaparte were not discouraged, and there was 
one more widening circle on the sea of daily 
events that was silently advancing to break against 
the political shore. 

Anatole d’Harcourt was at the head of the new 
conspiracy; and as he brooded over his plans and 
watched the course of events in France, all his 
racial prejudices were intensified. Profoundly 
disgusted with the growing power of the popular 
government, his animosity was fed as fire is with 
oil when the news of the Duke’s treacherous ar- 
rest and unjustifiable execution reached him. 
Among his closest friends were two young Royal- 
ists who.se homes had been wrecked in the Revo- 
lution, and whose e5’es were in no wise dazzled by 
the nation’s increasing glory and prosperity. 
They were animated by an almost fanatical hatred 
of Bonaparte; and though the quasi court of the 
Consulate was already frequented by many of even 
nobler blood than their own, they held haughtily 
aloof, Now their deepest indignation was aroused, 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


i6 


and, stirred by what had taken place, they were 
ready in their excitement to act the part of des- 
perate men. D’Harcourt became the leading 
spirit, and inspired by a temper of absolute reck- 
lessness, these three formed a new plot, the imme- 
diate object of which was to avenge d’Enghien’s 
death by assassinating the First Consul, while 
their ultimate desire was to facilitate the return 
of the white flag and the royal lilies of France, 
They met at night in Anatole’s rooms to formulate 
their still indeflnite schemes; and carried away by 
their emotion and intoxicated by the fervor of 
their purpose, they were apt to talk themselves 
into a white heat, garnishing their conversation 
with high-flown Latin quotations, and drawing 
examples both from antiquity and from more 
modern times. 

They considered that the title of “ First Consul 
for Life” was but a thin veil to disguise Bona- 
parte’s real ambition; and it .seemed to them a 
sacrilege that an upstart military leader should 
dare to cast his eyes towards the throne of St. 
Louis, even though he was the hero of many vic- 
tories, and his firm hand on the helm of state was 
leading their country forward to a great place 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


17 


among the nations of the earth. Embittered by 
the sense of loss sustained by those of their own 
rank, they took it upon themselves to become the 
instruments of France’s social and political regen- 
eration by removing the modern Coesar; and they 
forgot that assassination is always base murder 
even when accompanied by purest love of country, 
and that they also were moved by personal con- 
siderations. Moreover, the old order of things 
had been swept away forever, and the mighty 
hand of the Corsican was already reconstructing 
society as well as politics upon an entirely new 
basis. 

As the conspirators sat together that stormy 
night they looked out into the future through eyes 
that were blinded to its tremendous possibilities, 
and they were intent alone upon what their own 
puny attempts might accomplish. Anatole d’Har- 
court was the only one of the three whose motives 
w^ere in any sense redeemed by the unselfishness 
of his purpose. Devoted to his cause, he believed 
in the unfortunate fallacy that the end often justi- 
fies the means, and throwing himself with his 
whole soul into what he regarded as a duty to his 
exiled king, he was ready to sacrifice himself ep- 
2 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


tirely rather than to fail; — and this the others 
were not. 

The young men who formed the group about 
the table were all very fair representatives of their 
class. Careful in their appearance, they were at- 
tired in clothes that, though somewhat worn, were 
essentially those of aristocrats; and their grace of 
manner and their polished politeness betrayed a 
school of good breeding and courtliness that has 
never become extinct in France. Their surround- 
ings were humble, but the party was composed of 
men who were pre-eminently gentlemen. 

D’Harcourt was on his feet as he expounded his 
plans, and his companions listened to him in- 
tently. He was tall and imposing in appearance, 
his gestures were graceful, and his voice was well 
modulated and firm. Presently he broke off in 
what he was saying and began to inveigh against 
the government. 

“ Are we dogs, that we can be shot down thus?” 
he asked. There was a moment of silence before 
he continued : “ He who commands such things to 
be done in the name of justice is a red-handed 
tyrant!” 

“ And yet this Bonaparte has lately accomplished 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


19 


something for France,” observed the man directly 
opposite him.' “ He has at least brought back^ 
/a sainte religion. The churches stand open once 
more, and our country is no longer pagan. Cha- 
teaubriand even dedicates his ‘Gdnie de Chris- 
tianisme’ to the conqueror of Italy. The days of 
Voltaire and of Rousseau are over.” 

The speaker, Raoul de Boissy, was a young fel- 
low of twenty or thereabouts. He had delicate, 
almost feminine features, and dark hair and eyes. 
His long white fingers played nervously with the 
ruffles in his sleeve. He was as yet unstained 
with crime, and he shrank from committing the 
awful deed they were contemplating, though he 
never wavered in his desire that some one else 
should do it. Perhaps a lingering sense of right 
and wrong warned him that good can never come 
of evil, and he was therefore less self-poised and 
assertive than his leader. 

Anatole sneered as he answered, “ Bonaparte 
knew well enough that by restoring religion he 
would win the support of the people. It was a 
fine policy in truth ! Do you believe that his re- 
publican generals are Christians? When the Te 
Deum was sung in celebration of the Concordat 


20 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


two years ago at Notre Dame, the First Consul 
drove his officers to their positions about the high 
altar with the same authority that has sent them 
into battle. There was no faith in their hearts. 
When the Host is lifted they kneel and bow their 
heads, but the salute is the result of discipline. 
Art thou weakening, Raoul, in thy determination?” 

De Boissy shook his head, and Anatole went on : 
“Poor d’Enghien lies sweltering in his bloody 
grave, and his beloved, the young Princess Char- 
lotte de Rohan, has naught but his little dog to 
comfort her. They tore the faithful beast away 
from his master’s dead body, and they sent it to 
her with a lock of the Duke’s hair that he had 
clipped for her himself.” The speaker’s eyes 
flashed and his voice grew hoarse with emotion. 
“Blood calls for blood,” he exclaimed. “Napo- 
leon Bonaparte must die. Sic semper tyrannis!" 
He lifted his hand and brought it down so heavily 
upon the table that it trembled, and he looked 
about him defiantly. 

“Where you lead I follow,” said Jules de Mont- 
fort bluntly. “ May the Holy Mother protect us!” 

“ It is the part of patriots to save their country 
in the best way they can, ” said Raoul. “ If nec- 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


21 


essary, I will strike the blow with my own hand. 
Mayhap the saints will consider that all means are 
good when employed to serve the king. I wear 
this constantly for protection.” He pulled out a 
small reliquary that hung from a chain that was 
hidden among the ruffles at his breast. 

“Tyrants and usurpers must ever die!” said 
Anatole in his low, firm tones. “ It is the law of 
nature. Cae.sar found his Brutus; Henri HI. his 
Clement; even Henri of Navarre a Ravaillac. ” 

“And yet Henri was the ‘bon roi, ’ the darling 
of the people,” objected Raoul. 

Though at one as regarded the main purpose of 
their plan, the plotters held different opinions as 
to the manner of its accomplishment; consequently 
nothing had been done. Anatole was in favor of 
prompt and uncompromising assassination, while 
Raoul inclined more to the project of Pichegru 
and Cadoudal that aimed to seize the First Consul 
bodily, only resorting to his death if forced to in 
the struggle. De Montfort agreed with d’Har- 
court, but preferred the use of poison to that of 
firearms. 

How little they all knew, and how futile are the 
plans of man! Destiny accomplished his final de- 


22 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


struct! on without their aid. Had the conspirators 
been able to look a few years in advance they 
would have stood both amazed and aghast, for the 
conqueror’s ambitious schemes were to wreck him- 
self and France; though when he came at last to 
die alone upon his solitary rock in the ocean he had 
made his peace with God, and the world was sat- 
isfied. They knew nothing of what was to come, 
and intent only upon their own plot, talked of 
casting lots to decide which of them should be the 
one to undertake the dark deed. 

In the gloomy upper room there was but little 
good cheer. Even the wine in the flasks was sour, 
and the fire, though it roared fiercely, was of light 
wood and gave out but little heat. The young 
men shivered as the rain rattled on the windows, 
and the candles flickered and sent up curling 
spirals of evil-smelling smoke. Outside on the 
stairs heavy footsteps came and went, and the 
business of the inn progressed as usual. 

“ Shall we cast the dice?” said de Montfort as he 
slowly lifted the box. “ The one who first throws 
a couplet wins.” 

“Or loses all?” muttered Raoul between his 
teeth. 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


23 


Anatole took the box from him and rattled it, 
blit then he laid it down again. 

“Listen,” said he. “We must add a fourth to 
our number, and I propose my most intimate 
friend. Count Victor d’Olonet. He has better op- 
portunities than we have of getting near to Bona- 
parte’s person. Moreover, he is the soul of honor 
and as true as steel. ” 

“ For that very reason he will not join us,” said 
Raoul, “for he has accepted a commission in the 
army.” 

“What of that?” replied the other fiercely. 
“ We also fight an enemy of France. I am willing 
to stake my life that he will accept my proposi- 
tion, but we must approach him carefully at first. 
He has everything to gain if we succeed. The 
d’ Olonets have always shown the greatest devo- 
tion to the royal family, and it is high time that 
Victor should return to their traditions, for his 
race has been singularly favored by Louis XVI. 
While in the Temple his Majesty actually wrote a 
line of farewell in his breviary, which his faith- 
ful attendant C16ry delivered to Count d’Olonet 
after the king’s death, and this the family will 
always keep as a relic. How can my friend hesi- 


24 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


tate to come to us? His father was a victim of 
the Revolution, and his mother and his sweet 
sister Antoinette are with the ‘emigres’ in Ger- 
many.” 

De Boissy only shrugged his shoulders doubt- 
fully; but Anatole’s counsels prevailed, and a 
letter couched in ambiguous terms was then and 
there written to the proposed member, and this 
d’Harcourt took charge of himself. 

As he placed the written words within the 
breastpocket of his coat he rose to his feet again 
and looked at the others. There was something 
in his bearing as he did so that awed them, they 
knew not wh5^ Perhaps it was because his nature 
was so different from theirs that they were thrilled 
in spite of themselves, and were carried along on 
the wave of his purpose, just as the whirlwind 
sweeps up the chaff and hurries it on its own 
course. Even Raoul, who had been quick to re- 
sent a fancied affront, forgot his irritation. With 
d’Harcourt things went deeply. Though the pas- 
sions of his companions could be aroused into a 
storm of fury, it was like a tempest that ruffles the 
surface of the sea. With him a strong emotion 
was an upheaval that took its birth in depths they 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


25 


never dreamed of. He stood in the gloom of the 
upper room that night and paused, and the others 
waited, hanging on his words and with eyes riveted 
upon their chief. They knew that something must 
be coming. 

“Comrades!” he cried at last in a low ringing 
tone that thrilled and swayed them. “ Comrades, 
let us take an oath to slay the tyrant, and to defend 
the king, God bless him! One sword lies already 
there !” 

He pointed to Raoul’s blade, that still lay where 
it had fallen, and the lad looked up quickly and 
gratefully, more than appeased. 

“Swords must not rust,” continued Anatole in 
that low, magnetic, inspiring voice. “ When the 
time comes, good steel must bend and strike and 
flash for the cause! Comrades, follow me!” 

He drew his own with sudden, impetuous move- 
ment as his voice rose, and he held it high above 
his head while the light from the dying candle 
caught on its edge with a red glow. In quick re- 
sponse his companions’ blades leaped forth from 
discarded scabbards, and they flashed and clanged 
as they crossed each other and lay together in the 
brotherhood of well-tempered steel. They were 


26 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


gentlemen’s swords drawn for their own caste and 
for the king! 

“ In the name of justice!” exclaimed the leader 
in that tone that was weighted with sterner mean- 
ing than any shout, and at which young Raoul’s 
blood turned chill, 

“For holy, righteous vengeance, strike!” cried 
Anatole; and carried away by their emotion the 
young men fell into position as by instinct, and 
the bright blades crossed, and rang, and quivered 
until the blue sparks flew. “We swear it,” re- 
peated the leader, and the others answered, “ We 
swear!” as they still held their weapons aloft and 
the blood rushed through their veins, while eyes 
flashed and nerves grew tense. 

“And,” cried Anatole hoarsely, “with blood we 
will seal this bond.” 

The moment of elation had carried them away 
on the wings of an awakened enthusiam, but sud- 
denly the sputtering candle flared up and went 
out, the wind and storm increased in fury, and 
the windows rattled, while the darkness fell over 
tlie room ominously, — and like a bad augury to 
Raoul, at least. 

Shortly afterwards the party dispersed without 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


27 


any more definite conclusion having been reached, 
and the prime mover in the plot was left alone. 

It was late, but he could not sleep. Throwing 
open the door of the stove, he let the ruddy light 
pour forth into the room ; and dropping down upon 
a chair before it he leaned his head on his hand 
and became lost in meditation. The candles 
burned down in fheir sockets and went out, and 
only the glow of the fire gave him any light, but 
he did not heed the growing darkness. Half doz- 
ing, half dreaming of a brilliant future that was 
to come to him as the result of a dastardly deed, 
he sat far into the night, unconscious of the raging 
elements without that vied with the tumultuous 
surging of the thoughts in his own breast. He 
was not a wicked or a criiel man by nature. A 
happier lot than his might have developed quali- 
ties that would have been gallant in a good cause, 
but he had been impoverished and embittered by 
a course of events that every one of his inherited 
instincts taught him to detest. Good feeling had 
been dried up at its very spring, and his qualities 
of daring and of enterprise had been perverted by 
his unreasoning faculties into criminal desires. 


CHAPTER II. 


When pretty Gabrielle Gourtain knocked on 
Anatole’s door the next morning-, she thought her 
father’s lodger would never wake; but when she 
heard him stir at last, she turned and ran down 
quickly to her mother in the kitchen and begged 
her to hasten and prepare Monsieur’s chocolate at 
once, for he hated to be kept waiting and she knew 
that he would ring for it soon. 

Anatole had in truth slept late, but he had 
heard the city bells chime four o’clock before he 
had gone to rest ; and even after he had cast him- 
self down in utter weariness upon his bed, his 
mind had continued to be so overwrought and 
perplexed that it was long before oblivion had 
come to sooth him. At last, however, his heavy 
eyelids had closed and he had lost himself in a 
refreshing slumber that had remained quite un- 
disturbed until he was aroused by the timid tap 
on his door. His first exclamation was one of im- 
patience, but when he heard the voice outside bid- 
28 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


29 


ding the servant to heat water and to bring another 
log for the stove, he smiled, for he knew perfectly 
well to whom the silvery tones belonged. Despite 
the dark workings of his thoughts, he was by no 
means proof against the charms of a pretty face, 
and the attractive daughter of his host had always 
stood high in his favor. Besides, he had known 
Gabrielle since her earliest childhood, and he had 
been wont to regard her somewhat in the light of 
a pet and a plaything during his visits to the Sapin 
Vert. She was so fresh and winning, and her 
hands and feet were so ready in his service, that 
she had always seemed to him, even in the old 
days, as the perfection of a miniature handmaiden; 
and he had promised her repeatedly that when she 
was fully grown he would bestow upon her a box 
of trinkets which was to be laid aside against her 
wedding-day. This had been regarded by both 
of them as a fine joke ; and whenever he arrived 
from the country, he never failed to ask if the 
time had come when he was to look about for the 
marriage gift. 

But Gabrielle had shot up wonderfully since he 
had last been in Paris, and somehow the old joke 
had lost its zest. In the place of the little girl he 


30 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


had romped and played with he now found a 
young woman who possessed both a neat figure 
and a pretty face, and whose head had a most 
coquettish poise, though she could look down de- 
murely enough when she chose; and she constantly 
dropped the most fascinating of deferential curte- 
sies. Six months had wrought a great change, 
and it looked as if the time were really near when 
he might be called upon to redeem his promise. 
As he heard the light step outside his door that 
morning, and listened to the tones of her voice as 
she gave orders for his comfort, he laughed softly 
to himself. “ The little minx is charming enough 
to win whoever she likes,” he reflected, “and it 
is a pity that she should be wasted upon some 
greasy innkeeper or tradesman. I wager that old 
Gourtain will make a good match for her accord- 
ing to his own ideas,” he went on, pursuing the 
same train of thought as he turned over once more, 
“ for the rascal is as sly as a fox and always makes 
a fine bargain. I should hate to see the thing 
done; but, foi de ge?2tilho7nme / when it comes to 
that, if I have to sell my sword to raise the gold, 
she shall have a good gift from me on her wedding- 
day! In the mean time we must secure those 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


31 


buckles I saw at the silversmith’s on the quai last 
night,” 

Tt must be said of Anatole that he was as gen- 
erous and free-handed as though he had anything 
to spend; and he flung his largess about him in a 
positively regal manner whenever he chanced to 
have a few spare ecus in his pocket. He -might 
overlook such trifles as outstanding bills, but in 
the matter of easy giving he was not to be outdone. 
Gabrielle knew something of this, and though the 
promised trinkets had not as yet been forthcom- 
ing, sundry gay handkerchiefs and ribbons of lesser 
value had found their way into her hands, and she 
had never been averse to receiving them. 

When Amand shaved Anatole that morning, she 
had come as usual, and had stood beside her father 
holding a clean towel and a jug of warm water. 
The thick lather was hardly becoming, but even 
the soapsuds could not altogether disguise the 
outlines of d’Harcourt’s well-moulded chin, and 
when his clear-cut features were entirely freed 
from the white covering that hid the lower half of 
his face, she looked on approvingly and permitted 
herself to smile. The innkeeper also attended to 
his guest’s hair which was still worn in a cue; and 


32 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


the tonsorial operations always took place in the 
open common-room of the tavern. The cooking 
went on in the rear, and the customers were served 
on small tables that stood upon the sanded floor in 
front. Behind the zinc-covered counter over which 
Gourtain’s tap-boy handed the drinks, there was 
a tiny fenced-in corner where stood a desk ; and it 
was in this reserved space that the ex-valet at- 
tended to his distinguished patron in the intervals 
between waiting upon newcomers and regulating 
the accounts in his ledger. 

When Anatole saw Gabrielle smile, he smiled 
back, and then he arose and flung away the towel 
that was tucked under his chin, and proceeded to 
saunter forth in an altogether easy and lordly 
fashion. He did not even thank his host for hav- 
ing performed the menial service, although he 
knew himself to be the only frequenter of the 
hostelry who received such attention. That this 
was ungracious never occurred to him. “ It was 
the man’s place to shave a gentleman,” he would 
have said; “and had not Gourtain been born 
and brought up on the d’Harcourt estates , — que 
(liable ? It was there that he had learned to wait 
upon the nobility.” 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


33 


Amand bore him no grudge, and only looked 
pleased when he heard the young man invite his 
daughter to step with him around the corner to 
the silversmith’s shop, in order that they might 
search there together for a perfect pair of buckles, 

“ I had thought of paste,” said Anatole grandly, 
“ but though they sparkle more, the silver ones 
will really be twice as becoming to the shape of 
your feet.” 

He dropped his hands into his almost empty 
pockets and carelessly jingled the few coins he 
found there. He was quite aware that he had not 
enough to pay for the more elaborate ornaments, 
and that even the price of the moderate ones 
should go instead into the money-drawer of the 
Sa/>in Vert; but he was counting upon a slender 
remittance from home, and he was eager to give 
Gabrielle pleasure. 

His first care that day had been to dispatch his 
letter to Count d’Olonet, and that once accom- 
plished his mind had turned, with its natural elas- 
ticity, to means of present enjoyment. The weather 
promised to be fine after the rain, and broad patches 
of blue sky were a good augury for unclouded 
sunshine later. As the couple passed along they 
3 _ 


34 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


conversed together in the low tones of those com- 
pletely at home with each other. She was pleased 
to be seen walking with such a fine gentleman, 
and it amused him to have her company. The 
streets were full of people who hurried along in- 
tent upon the business of the day. Workmen 
passed, street-venders’ shrill voices proclaimed 
their wares ; tradespeople, soberly dressed, pushed 
through the crowd and looked contemptuously at 
the gallants who, in spite of their care to avoid the 
puddles, often splashed their neat hose. Vehicles 
rumbled and rolled, and pedestrians of all sorts 
and conditions picked their way through the mud 
and jostled each other where the path was narrow. 
The inviting aroma of roasted chestnuts greeted 
their nostrils frequently, and the glowing charcoal 
of the braziers made points of light within dark 
doorways. The city had taken up its daily life, 
and the women of the laboring classes, grateful 
for the returning mildness after the chill of the 
night before, threw back their heavier garments 
and went on their way bareheaded as usual, unless 
coifed with muslin caps. Those from the /lal/es 
filled the air with their cries, and often also 
with their fishy smell; and up and down the 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


35 


river-front loungers paused to watch the horses 
who were being watered in the stream. As 
Anatole and Gabrielle progressed, the girl stepped 
daintily beside him. Her foolish head was 
quite turned by having him for an escort, and 
her vanity was flattered at the prospect of new 
finery. She knew that she was pretty, and as she 
caught glimpses of her trim figure reflected in 
the mirrors of the shop windows, she smiled and 
plumed herself, smoothing down her spotless 
kerchief, and straightening out her flying rib- 
bons. She was a shallow little thing, but she was 
also light-hearted and kindly disposed. Like a 
child, she could be bribed to do almost anything, 
and Anatole knew that in her he had an uncon- 
scious instrument that could be moulded at his 
will. As a messenger she would be invaluable. 
It was quite worth while, therefore, to spend a 
chance gold piece for her gratification; and he 
found her so attractive that he was in no way averse 
to it when she chose to bestow a kiss upon him in- 
stead of thanks. 

As they went on their way she felt for his 
hand from time to time, and he let her have it, 
treating her as though she were a child. It 


36 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


pleased him to have this pretty, clinging thing 
beside him. 

Once a young fellow passed, singing boister- 
ously ; and as he caught sight of Gabrielle stepping 
lightly over the unclean streets, his attention was 
instantl)^ attracted. 

“ Pretty one,” he said, as he paused and stared, 
“ I wish that I also had so charming a compan- 
ion as yourself to walk with, but I see that you 
have already found a fine escort, and that there is 
no chance for such as me!” 

He laughed as he thrust his bold face forward, 
but flared up in anger when he felt Anatole’s 
buffet across his cheek. 

“Will you fight?” he demanded, squaring off, 
as his face grew hot and red. 

“Gentlemen do not fight with the canaille^" 
answered d’Harcourt dryly, and he calmly took 
out his handkerchief and wiped his hand. “ It is 
bad enough to touch them. Go, and remember 
that I will see no woman under my care insulted 
by you.” 

The insolent fellow stooped to gather up a 
handful of mud, which he prepared to fling at 
Gabrielle. 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


37 


“ I will spoil your good looks!” he shouted. 

A little crowd had gathered, but they did not 
applaud. They simply stood and waited, unde- 
cided whether to uphold the ruffian or the gentle- 
man — and Anatole was equal to the occasion. 
Leaving Gabrielle, he stepped up to the youth 
and, grasping him firmly by the collar of his coat 
and at the waist, lifted him off the ground and 
seated him upon the ledge of a window over- 
head. 

“Stay there,” he remarked quietly, “where 
you are out of the way.” 

This summary disposal of an adversary turned 
the balance as it trembled, and the volatile Paris- 
ians greeted the prompt action with a roar of 
laughter. It tickled their sense of the ludicrous, 
and was even better than a fight. 

As Anatole and Gabrielle went on unmolested, 
the former stooped and whispered : “ Do not fear, 
child. You are quite safe. He who is rude to 
you insults me.” 

“Monsieur is so good and so strong,” she mur- 
mured gratefully, and she looked up with a world 
of timid admiration in her glance. Who indeed 
was so gallant and masterful, so handsome and 


38 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


engaging, so altogether perfect in the sight of his 
companion, as this proud though impecunious heir 
to the fallen fortunes of a family bearing one of 
the oldest names in France? 

The small shop they visited that day was tucked 
away in a corner of the lower floor of a high build- 
ing that was a perfect hive of tradespeople ; — and 
once inside, they were soon occupied in turning 
over the contents of the showcases and drawers. 
Gabrielle was immensely pleased by all she found, 
and was only too glad to allow the silver buckles 
to be placed upon her shoes at once. She held 
back her skirt gingerly, and trod about on tiptoe 
to see the effect of her feet decked out with these 
new treasures; and after she had entirely satisfied 
herself with looking at them, she returned once 
more to admire the gewgaws that the obliging 
shopkeeper allowed her to ransack at will. Ana- 
tole stood by and smiled indulgently, very much 
as he might have done at the caprices of a spoiled 
and petted child. 

A set of buttons caught her fancy. The steel 
facets were finely cut and polished, and when held 
up to the light reflected it almost with the lustre 
of diamonds. She placed the shining things 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


39 


against her sleeve and she laid them on the velvet 
lining of a jewel-box. 

“How they sparkle!” said she, smiling so that 
she showed her pretty teeth. 

“Yes, mademoiselle, they are very beautiful,” 
said the man. “ Mme. Bonaparte came here last 
week and bought a set exactly like them for her- 
self. She is a wonderfully fine lady, and a most 
kind patroness to the tradespeople. She has a 
quick eye for any novelty and she dresses like a 
princess.” 

Anatole frowned, but the merchant went on flu- 
ently as he searched for a bit of cotton wool, “ And 
she is most gracious too, and amiable with every 
one. Even the Royalists flock to her salon, and 
she has warm friends among them. But though 
she lives like a queen almost, she is not at all am- 
bitious, I hear. Times are changing! times are 
changing! Here is M. de Talleyrand, who gives 
a ball to-night, and all parties will be represented 
there. ” 

“It is but three days since the Duke died!” 
ejaculated Anatole, “ and two months ago Mme. 
de Talleyrand refused to attend a ball given by 
the Austrian ambassador on January 21st, the an- 


40 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


niversary of the King’s death. She was horror- 
struck at the inadvertence of M. de Cobentzel in 
having named that day. Times are changing, as 
you say. ” 

“Will mademoiselle take the buttons?” asked 
the man, without noticing this last remark. 

Gabrielle looked at Anatole and he nodded. 

The merchant busied himself in wrapping them 
up in paper, and as he handed them over the 
counter, he added: “ There, mademoiselle, now 
that you have persuaded monsieur to give you the 
buttons also, you will indeed be dressed like that 
gracious lady herself. My very heart aches for 
her too, for they say that she is torn with anxiety 
for the First Consul’s life.” 

“Wherefore?” asked Anatole. “ He is always 
closely guarded.” 

“Well,” said the talkative shopkeeper, proud to 
show off his knowledge, “ I have a friend among 
the household, and I hear from hiih that great 
precautions are taken. Ever since the discovery 
of the infernal machine extra care has been ob- 
served to secure his safety. Every one knows that 
the city is full of assassins, and that it has been 
ever since Cadoudal came back to France. The 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


41 


Story is that the conspirators scaled the cliff on the 
coast by means of a smuggler’s rope, and that 
they are hidden away now in Paris. But, soyez 
tranquille, Bonaparte is a great man, and he will 
know how to protect himself. Pichegru and 
Moreau are already arrested ; d’Enghien is dead; 
and that arch plotter, Georges Cadoudal, the 
Chouan, will also be trapped and made to pay 
his deserts.” 

“ Let them first catch their fox before they at- 
tempt to sell his hide,” said Anatole dryly, “ The 
Duke’s death was simply murder. He was living 
quietly the life of a private gentleman on his es- 
tates. If he went to Strasbourg, it was only to go 
to the play! Bonaparte’s minions captured him, 
and he was laid low by their master’s will.” 

He spoke excitedly and the shopkeeper looked 
up in surprise, “ Monsieur is not a republican?” 
he asked, 

“ I?” exclaimed d’Harcourt, turning on his heel, 
“No, I am not, Bonaparte is a great man— no 
one can deny that — and he has saved France once, 
but now let him see that the throne is restored to 
the Bourbons, to whom*it belongs, I have no faith 
in him, and since he has taken to shooting down 


42 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


princes of the blood we might as well be in the 
hands of the sans culottes once more!” Fearing 
that he had said too much, he added hastily : “ But 
I dare say all will yet go well. I hear that many 
of the old nobles are returning to take possession 
of what has been restored to them of their lands.” 
He paused and addressed himself to Gabrielle: 
“Come, little one, you have bought enough.” He 
turned his silk purse inside out. “See! for this 
morning I have nothing left. We will go and take 
a stroll in the Luxembourg gardens before we re- 
turn to the inn.” 

Once more on the street, they threaded their 
way through the crowd until they reached the 
pathways of the gardens; and when within they 
established themselves on a stone seat. It would 
have been too cold to remain there had not the 
sun found its way through the still bare branches of 
the trees, flooding the damp alleys with its cheer- 
ing warmth. The sparrows hopped about cheer- 
fully, children ran hither and thither in their play ; 
and the light falling on the gray stone lit up. the 
palace and gradually dispelled the prevailing wet. 
There was a life-giving feeling in the air, as though 
spring had really come in spite of the chill that 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


43 


Struck one when inactive, and which was a sure 
menace of rheumatism. 

The passing diversion of the shopping expedi- 
tion being over, Anatole relapsed once more into a 
state of gloom that even Gabrielle’s prattle could 
not dissipate; and after resting a while, they arose 
and slowly retraced their steps to the Rue des 
Trois Canettes. He was no longer in the humor 
for an outing. It is a terrible thing to bear alone 
the responsibility of an act involving very serious 
consequences; and though he had thrown off its 
burden for a moment, the weight of it quickly re- 
turned to oppress him. He had worked himself 
up to a state of exaltation the night before, but 
in spite of his reasoning and his fixed determina- 
tion he shrank from committing the horrible deed. 
But Anatole had nerves of steel, and he was capa- 
ble of both the devotion and the daring of a fa- 
natic. He knew well enough that de Montfort and 
de Boissy were his creatures, and that though will- 
ing to follow in his lead, would hardly take the 
initiative in any desperate act. Words were cheap. 
Actions told, “ Ah, if I had but Victor with me,” 
he mused. And then came the remembrance of 
d’Olonet’s clear, straightforward gaze, his pure 


44 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


brow, and his candid nature. Something like re- 
gret filled Anatole’s heart as he questioned the 
wisdom of having approached his friend. “ He 
would fight an enemy face to face with the bravery 
of a hero, but would he soil his hands with 
crime?” 

Anatole’s face grew dark as Raoul’s words came 
back to him, for he knew that his companion had 
been right. He loved Victor better perhaps than 
anything on earth, and he longed to have him 
near; but in the revulsion of feeling that was 
gradually creeping over him, he began to repent 
having done anything to draw him into his own 
dark scheme. “ His hands are clean,” thought the 
disaffected aristocrat. ” The saints be thanked 
that my letter only hinted at a possible plot, but 
gave no clue to its real intent. I wanted to sound 
him first. Once, when we were mere lads together, 
I saved the boy’s life. Shall I drag him to his 
ruin now? God forbid! The others are empty- 
headed and vaporing, and too rash to be trusted. 
I will do the deed myself; but when the thing is 
accomplished, I will turn the weapon on myself 
and take my own life.” 

Anatole might be a villain, but he was at any 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


45 


rate a gentleman and could not tolerate the indig- 
nity of arrest. He looked before him sadly, and 
walked along in such total silence that his com- 
panion, wearied at last by his lack of conversation, 
pressed him to speak. 

“Why has monsieur become so melancholy?” 
said she. “ An hour ago he was as gay as a lark.” 

“I am thinking of one I love dearly,” he an- 
swered. “ That makes me quiet.” 

“ Ah, monsieur, and is it a woman ?” She clasped 
her hands anxiously. “ Surely, monsieur, if that 
is so, she must be a great lady, and you will soon 
forget your little Gabrielle.” 

“ No, child, I cannot tell thee who it is, but do 
not fear. I will always be thy friend.” He looked 
down and saw that her lips were pouting and that 
crystal drops hung from her long lashes. 

“And dost thou care a little for me thyself, 
Gabrielle?” he asked softly. 

“ Ah, Dieu des Anges! ” she sighed. “ How can 
monsieur ask? But, of course, it is a lady that 
he loves, and therefore the innkeeper’s daughter 
must be forgotten.” A look of jealousy filled her 
eyes. “It is not for what /monsieur gives,” she 
added. “ It is for himself that I care. Here! take 


46 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


back the buttons, and the clasps also from my 
shoes!” 

She stooped to loosen them, but he laid a re- 
straining hand on her shoulder. “ Foolish child I 
What are my friends to you? Keep the toys I 
gave you. If I were rich, I would find you many 
more; and you should wear silks and velvets like 
a real lady.” 

She blushed hotly. “ Does monsieur really mean 
that? I have never walked with a gentleman be- 
fore — my father would not let me; but with M. 
d’Harcourt it is different,” he said. She glanced 
up at him shyly and then added: “When M. le 
Marquis weds, perhaps his wife might wish to 
have me for her maid, but, — but I will not come!” 

She stamped her foot angrily as her temper rose, 
but at the same time she continued to look up at 
him furtively, and she appeared so exasperatingly 
pretty in her passion as her cheeks flushed and her 
eyes filled with something that was not resent- 
ment alone that Anatole paused in wonder; yet he 
did a very foolish thing a second later when he 
stooped to kiss away her tears. They were quite 
alone. No one saw it done; and she turned 
quickly and caught hold of his arm, and thus 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


47 


linked together they passed on, she entirely ap- 
peased, and he at first touched, but presently silent 
again and almost forgetful of her presence. How- 
ever, he recollected it as they rounded the corner 
and entered the square in front of Notre Dame, 
and he paused to gently disengage himself. People 
were streaming into the great church in order to 
attend someone of its many services, and it would 
never do for a chance acquaintance to see him with 
a daughter of the people hanging to his arm. 

The following days passed wearily, and were 
spent for the most part in his own room or in roam- 
ing about the city, for his conflicting thoughts 
would give him no rest, and he even avoided meet- 
ing his friends. 

The answer to his letter arrived sooner than he 
had thought possible, and when he broke the 
seal his hand actually trembled. Danger and 
anxiety, where he was concerned alone, left 
him imperturbable, but when this friend he so 
dearly loved became involved, the thing was dif- 
ferent, The first words reassured him somewhat, 
for they were commonplace enough and spoke of 
a temporary indisposition that kept the writer from 
calling in person; but then d’Olonet went on to 


48 


UNDER THE CORSICA N. 


say: “ I find myself for the moment in Paris, where 
I have returned invalided from the army. Your 
letter fills me with misgivings, for if the mysterious 
business in which you are engaged is in any way 
illegal, I warn you that I cannot take part in it. 
You know that I am at heart a Royalist, and that 
I would lay down my life for his Majesty the 
King, but at present I hold a commission in the 
army, — and the army is France! Our poor coun- 
try has been torn by wars and dissensions; pros- 
perity is only beginning to return to it, and the 
part of a true patriot is to uphold existing law and 
order. Our day is for the moment past: perhaps 
it may come again. In the meantime let us wait 
patiently. I fear me, my friend, that you are get- 
ting into mischief. Take care!” 

According to the young aristocrat’s code, the 
profession of arms was the only one fit for a gen- 
tleman to follow; and when influence had pro- 
cured for him an opening in the army he had ac- 
cepted it eagerly, believing it to be the surest road 
to fortune and glory. And he was not wrong, for 
tremendous changes were taking place daily, and 
there had never been a time when personal valor 
and intelligence bade fair to win so prompt a re- 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


49 


ward. The army of France had a mighty sound 
in those days, and men of all stations fraternized 
as they filled its ranks. It was a daring act when 
Bonaparte called upon the Vendeens after the rup- 
ture came with England, but in spite of old tradi- 
tions he succeeded in forming the survivors of 
Quiberon and Nantes into a legion that never be- 
trayed its trust. Victor d’Olonet was not the only 
nobleman who felt that by so bearing arms for his 
country he could serve with dignity under the 
banner of the Republic. Moreover, like many 
others, including the exiled Louis XVIII. himself, 
he entertained a hope that the First Consul only 
held the power in trust, a fondly cherished desire 
that was destined to a speedy disillusion, for the 
man of fortune was in the full tide of his victorious 
course. 

When Anatole finished reading his letter, the 
paper fell from his hands, and an unreasoning 
feeling of joy swept over him. Victor was true to 
himself, and though his determination would rob 
his friend of a support he had once hoped for, 
d’Harcourt felt immensely relieved when he knew 
his decision, and, added to this contradictory state 
of his mind, came a longing to see the boy. He 
4 


50 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


resolved to seek him without loss of time, and 
proposed to allay his suspicions at once, so that 
they might resume without restraint a companion- 
ship that had constituted one of the few joys of 
his own dark life. It was certainly a strange tie 
that bound the sunny-tempered, light-hearted Vic- 
tor and the embittered Anatole together, but its 
root lay far back in early childhood, when they had 
studied and played together upon adjoining estates 
in Brittany. Misfortune had developed and puri- 
fied Victor like finely tempered steel, and in spite 
of the frivolities of inconsequent youth the essence 
of a very real manhood lay within him, while, on 
the other hand, Anatole had become desperate, 
and gloomy, and cynical. Much brooding over 
warped opinions had produced distorted concep- 
tions of realities, and questions of right and wrong 
became much confused in d’Harcourt’s troubled 
mind. Sceptical by nature, fanatically religious 
by tradition, he was perpetually swaying from one 
extreme to the other. He would kneel all night on 
the cold stone floor pf a church as he invoked the 
aid of heaven and consecrated himself anew to a 
cause he had taught himself to consider as sacred — 
not unlike J acques Clement, who fasted and took the 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


51 


sacrament before he slew Henri III. But the im- 
pious spirit of the age had touched him also, and 
there were times when he believed in nothing in 
heaven or on earth. Sarcastic, forceful, bitter; 
ceremoniously polite or icily formal — he eould yet 
drop a tear of emotion at the knowledge of his 
friend’s rectitude; and to children and to animals 
he had never said a harsh word in his life. He 
was more arrogant than proud ; he was overbearing 
rather than firm ; but he could be both gracious 
and courteous, and, strange to say, even gentle. 
He was brave to recklessness, but failure left him 
in despair. He was tall and straight and dark. 
His face was handsome but hard, and his eyes 
could flash with a light that, once seen, few forgot. 
His clothes, no matter how old, sat perfectly; and 
he was as careful of his hands as any lady, and 
never unconscious of his shapely calves and irre- 
proachably shod and buckled feet. 

Victor’s portrait can be drawn in lighter lines. 
Buoyant, hopeful, courageous, he looked forward 
to the future through clear gray eyes, and. spoke 
brightly of life and its difficulties in tones that 
never faltered. Of the two men, one represented 
the expiring spirit of an evil and unscrupulous 


52 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


past, the other the youth of the new century, with 
its golden opportunities. Both were the outcome 
of their age. 

During these days that Anatole mused over his 
affairs alone, Gabrielle watched him closely as he 
came and went ; and his apparent forgetfulness of 
her fanned the spark of jealousy into a steady 
though low-burning flame. She became more 
than ever convinced that he was in love, and her 
dark eyes looked at him sharply as he passed ; but 
her heightened color, though it added to her looks, 
did not make him even turn his head. She had 
already begun to wait upon her father’s customers; 
and as she tripped among the tables in her gay 
striped, short-waisted gown, and with her hair 
twisted into a bewitching knot behind, her bright 
eyes, her cheeks pinker than a rose-petal, her 
small mouth, and her slightly tiptilted nose made 
a most alluring picture of a pretty serving-maid. 
The men gazed upon her in open admiration, and 
were profuse of compliments; but, unlike her usual 
self, she did not heed them, for her mind was full 
of something else. 

She stifled all outward expression of anxiety, 
but waited upon d’Harcourt with increasing solici- 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


53 


tude, though, in his preoccupation, he barely no- 
ticed her. When Victor’s letter arrived, it occa- 
sioned her fresh alarm, for she saw how eagerly he 
received it, and that he hastened to shut himself 
up in his room in order to read it alone. As he 
passed, the look on his face frightened her. 

“ It must be that Monsieur Anatole is unhappy,” 
she reflected. “Can it be that the lady he loves 
is treating him unkindly? Ah, the wicked soul! 
For me, alas! he has no longer any words, and I 
know not how to comfort him. He will not even 
smile when I pass,” she continued with a pang. 
“That must surely mean that he loves another; — 
but I will know, I must know who it is. He re- 
ceived a letter last night, and it came by a pri- 
vate messenger. It probably was from her, ah, 
me! But I will watch him; — oh, yes, I will watch 
him very closely.” 


CHAPTER III. 


While Gabrieli e was dwelling on thoughts that 
gave her pain, and was allowing her head to be- 
come filled with all sorts of ideas that had no busi- 
ness there, the young men had met, and Anatole’s 
first care had been to divert his friend’s suspicions 
and to parry his many questions. This was more 
easily accomplished than he had anticipated, for 
Victor was far from well, and thus too languid to 
take his usual interest in what was going on ; and 
he was also much harassed with worry of his own. 
He was not prone to imagine evil, and he accepted 
without question his friend’s somewhat labored 
explanations, that tended to turn his thoughts in a 
perfectly harmless direction, and he never dreamed 
of the real purport of Anatole’s plans. 

So Victor remained in Paris shaking with ague, 
and with his mind full of anxiety regarding his 
affairs. Like many of the nobles, he had endeav- 
ored to repair his fallen fortunes by taking part in 
some of the speculations then rife, and he had 
54 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


55 


soon found himself in a very serious financial di- 
lemma. He was both depressed and ill ; and to 
add to his troubles, he was forced to devote his 
time and attention to an impending lawsuit. He 
had very little hope that it would come to a suc- 
cessful conclusion, though he had engaged Isidore 
Bertrand, a brilliant and rising lawyer of the Con- 
sulate, to defend his cause; and the uncertainty 
was most wearing. Worn out with a nagging 
fever, that had sapped his strength and his spirits, 
yet d’Olonet had been in despair when the army 
surgeon had declared him unfit for service, and 
he had been obliged to leave the camp at Boulogne 
and return to comparative inactivity at Paris. He 
had been fighting off a low malarial condition 
ever since, though trying manfully to fulfill the 
lighter service to which he had been assigned near 
the capital. Now he was on the verge of break- 
ing down completely, and rest was imperative, 
though he failed to avail himself of it. He was 
alternately burning with fever and shaking with 
chills, but he took no care of his health ; and when 
he was not actually confined to his bed, he allowed 
himself to be carried away by the dissipations the 
great city afforded— to forget himself, he said. 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


S6 


Led on by Anatole and his set, his life had been 
anything but regular. Wine, cards, and fast so- 
ciety are bad enough at any time; but when in- 
dulged in by a man whose health is shattered and 
whose fortune has departed, they are simply de- 
struction — and yet Victor plunged each day deeper 
into the vortex of such pleasures, ever rolling up 
difficulties from which it was to become almost 
impossible to extricate himself. 

In those ante-imperial days there was much 
about him to entertain and to distract in spite of 
old prejudices, and he snatched eagerly at all that 
came in his way; and, in truth, the restlessness, 
and the insatiate striving of the modern life for 
profit, or pleasure, or excitement, was infectious. 
The Parisian world was going through a new 
phase; and though Anatole regarded it with dis- 
dain, it was still the Paris that had produced 
de vStael and Recamier; it was the city of Talma 
and of David, and a host of other celebrities in 
every walk of life, and in its own way it was sur- 
passingly brilliant. 

Properly speaking, “ society” did not exist any 
longer, and the old regime was a thing of the past; 
but charming old Mme. d’Houdetot, keeping apart 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


57 


from all political parties, gathered about her what 
was most agreeable and best worth meeting in the 
social world, and her house was a veritable haven 
of rest. There both d’Olonet and d’Harcourt were 
welcome. 

The First Consul held his vulgar court at the 
Tuileries, where it was presided over by his wife, 
the graceful Creole, whose superb dressing and 
winning manners raised her each day in popular 
esteem, while her tact did much to lessen the bar- 
rier that lay between the old aristocracy and her 
powerful consort. There was plenty of glitter and 
display in this pinchbeck court which had been 
called into being by the great will that was ruling 
and reconstructing everything in France, and in 
the eager race for place and preferment Republi- 
can and Royalist jostled each other. 

He could be often seen in his carriage as he 
flashed through the streets of Paris, this small, 
badly dressed man with the classic features and 
the eagle eye; a sovereign in all but name, power- 
ful at home, feared abroad, the savior of France 
— and all eyes turned to the rising sun. 

Beautiful Paris, after her orgy of blood and crime, 
was rehabilitating herself in preparation for the 


58 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


Empire. There was plenty of life in the streets, 
and in the cafes, and in all public places. The 
theatres were crowded. Troops passed frequently ; 
martial music was in the air; men paused in knots 
on the street-corners to talk. There was an atmos- 
phere of bustle, of forceful action, of regenera- 
tion ; the movement of new sap stirring through 
the nation’s fibres. Prosperity was beginning to 
show its face once more, and the slipshod days of 
the Revolution seemed forgotten? With the re- 
turning Royalists came the amenities of life. Peo- 
ple dressed well and dined well. Cabs thronged 
the streets, for the citizens were learning to love 
ease again, and driving was often to be more de- 
sired than picking one’s way through the muddy 
thoroughfares. Silk stockings and embroidered 
coats were seen, and the women vied with each 
other in their attire; and this influence affected 
all classes. Squalor and unloveliness were being 
relegated to a troubled past, and the impetuous 
people were rushing on to a tumultuous and ex- 
travagant existence that lay in the near future. 
Nothing succeeds like success, and France was 
enveloped in a blaze of glory. 

Into this seething world of life and excitement 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


59 


that pervaded the streets of the capital our young 
men plunged ; and Anatole kept close to Victor’s 
elbow, as, like an evil genius, he led him on from 
one rash act to another. It seemed as though 
having seen d’Olonet save himself from implica- 
tion in one mad scheme, d’Harcourt was satisfied. 
As they loitered about the cafes they met many 
acquaintances, and opinions were freel)^ ex- 
changed as they discussed the columns of the 
“ Moniteur, ” 

One evening — it was the 29th of March — as they 
were entering a favorite place of amusement, they 
heard of the arrest of Georges Cadoudal that had 
just occurred in the Place de I’Od^on. He was 
driving in a cabriolet, and when a gendarme caught 
the horse by the bridle, the Chouan shot him dead. 
Every one on hearing the news went wild with 
excitement and all sorts of statements were made. 
Some declared that he had come with the avowed 
purpose of slaying Bonaparte, others denied it; 
and groups of agitated men on the sidewalk ges- 
ticulated and talked loudly. When Anatole be- 
came aware of what had happened, he turned pale 
as he remarked dryly: “ He would have done well 
to have availed himself long ago of the First 


6o 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


Consul’s overtures if he wanted to live. He is as 
good as a dead man now.” 

Victor was intensely concerned, for he had felt 
the power and fascination of the wonderful per- 
sonal magnetism exerted by Bonaparte, and with 
which the whole army was imbued. He believed 
in him entirely, and was unable to look upon him 
as a usurper, as Anatole did ; for, in his youthful 
confidence, he still waited for the return of the 
Legitimists. 

“Napoleon Bonaparte is not implacable,” he 
said to his friend. “ But he must protect himself. 
He is the only hope of France.” 

“I know,” replied d’Harcourt, with white lips, 
“ that France has many devoted sons who follow 
the lead and swell the train of the Corsican. 
Come, let us go on. The night is fine, and we 
must walk.” 

In his moments of suppressed excitement and 
emotion there was no outlet that gave Anatole 
such relief as physical exercise. It was as though 
violent bodily action lessened the tense strain on 
his nerves; and he now dragged Victor out with 
him into the street, and started at such a frenzied 
pace that the other lagged. 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


6i 


“What is the matter?” he asked sharply, look- 
ing back. “Can’t you come on? One’s blood 
stagnates inside that place, and the noise of voices 
drives me mad. Let us Avalk fast in this cold 
night air. I feel as if I should stifle.” But as the 
yellow light of the flickering street-lamp fell on 
Victor’s face, he paused and continued gently: 
“You should go home to bed. Why, man, you 
are pale as death ! You are positively livid. Are 
you ill?” 

“No, I am not ill; but one of those chills is 
coming on, and my bones ache as if they were 
broken. The feeling of this damp air penetrates 
me.” 

A drizzling rain was falling, and where the 
gleam of lights showed across the wet streets, the 
reflection of wavering flames lay on the wet mud, 
with a dull glow of color. The sound of wheels 
was subdued, and the roar of the city seemed 
muffled by the environing mist that wrapped one 
up in its cold, white embrace. Concentrated moist- 
ure fell in large drops from the bare branches of 
the trees and swelled the little lakes at the roots; 
and as the wind stirred the boughs the patter of 
falling water appeared prophetic of a heavier 


62 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


shower. It was certainly an uninviting night for 
exercise, and Victor drew his shoulders together 
and shivered as he added, “ I am cold as a stone.” 

In a moment Anatole’s arm linked in his friend’s, 
and the light of love lit up his eyes. Gently as a 
mother tending a sick child, he led the other back 
to his lodging, and never left him until he saw 
him safely in bed with a warm drink beside him ; 
— and comforted by the warmth, d’Olonet sank 
into an uneasy slumber. 

Victor was a charming fellow in spite of his 
faults. Young, ardent, confident, he seemed to 
the sombre-minded friend of his childhood as a 
very son of the gods. He had an oval face, with 
good features. His eyes were rather deeply set 
under a smooth, square brow, and his mouth 
showed the peculiar sweetness of his nature. He 
was sound as he was loyal, and his open face was 
a constant reproach to his companion. Born in 
the country, bred in the open air, he had imbibed 
something of the beauty and the strength of the 
nature amid which he lived; and when the terri- 
ble trials came that destroyed his home and sepa- 
rated him from his family when he was still but a 
lad of fifteen, his quiet confidence in himself, his 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


63 


unquenchable spirit of hope, and, beyond all, his 
energy and activity had carried him safely through 
much that would have wrecked many a nature 
less truly sweet and sound than his. Pleasure- 
loving by temperament, and easily carried away 
by a trust that made it difficult for him to doubt 
those he loved, he sometimes let himself be drawn 
into paths that he would have done better to have 
left untrodden; and this weakness constituted a 
serious flaw im his facile character. It was in 
consequence of this very thing that he was rapidly 
deteriorating in the unhealthy atmosphere of the 
life into which Anatole had introduced him. In 
spite of inherited traditions, he was somewhat 
democratic in his tastes. He dressed soberly when 
not in uniform, and he wore his hair cut short, like 
the men of the new regime. There was something 
in his composition that called for his devotion, 
reverence, and a clinging fidelity to something. 
He would have been a trusty follower of his king 
had fortune turned that way, but the growing 
glory of the present appealed to him, and he be- 
lieved with all his heart that Bonaparte had res- 
cued the country from turmoil and strife, and had 
established a strong but provisional government; 


64 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


and so to the present form of law and order he 
had transferred all his loyalty. His state of mind 
was curious; and if he had probed his own con- 
sciousness, he would have really found the word 
liberty written on his heart. But Victor was not 
given to introspection. Extremely simple and 
.straightforward in his desires, he asked for nothing 
better than a vocation in which he could serve his 
country faithfully and upon which he could spend 
his boundless energy. This the army gave him, 
and he asked for nothing further. He would have 
liked more money. He dreamed of the time when 
he should see his mother and sister again, but he 
was in the meantime perfectly contented, and 
grasped eagerly at the distractions his present life 
afforded. 

As Anatole watched him sleeping, something 
like remorse swept over him. Had he done his 
best by the lad? He was three years his senior, 
and his own life had not been without reproach. 
Was he leading Victor in the way his mother 
would have wished him to go? 

“ A man is a man,” he answered himself testily. 
“Victor is not a child, and he must take care of 
his own life. But he played too high last night. 


UNDER THE CORSICAN 


65 


I must try and keep him from the card-table for 
the present, or he will lose all that is left of his 
small pay. His hands are free of my affairs, 
thank the saints ! I was a fool to even think for 
a moment of that impressionable boy. When he 
looks at me with that clear gaze of his, I almost 
drop my own eyes. But what I do I shall do 
openly. A gentleman never strikes from behind, 
and a gentleman also knows how to die himself 
when the time comes. What I do shall be done in 
the name of the King.” 

“The King!” The word was a fetish. It was 
more: it was a creed, a religion almost. What 
perfidy and rapine, what devotion and honor, 
what self-sacrifice and glorious deeds, what black 
treachery and injustice have been wrought through 
the long ages for — “The King!” 

Anatole shook his head despondently, and after 
a time he went home. He was powerless to stay 
Victor’s mad career, for he was not an instrument 
for good himself; but other help was near, though 
it was to come from a quarter neither would have 
dreamed of. 

5 


CHAPTER IV. 


Isidore Bertrand had kept a watchful eye on his 
client, and he had become aware that things were 
going badly with him. The lawyer was a man of 
quick discernment and not unkindly nature. He 
liked the young fellow; and though it really was 
no business of his, he saw with regret that Victor 
was becoming more and more involved in troubles 
and embarrassments of various kinds, while his 
health was in such a precarious condition that a 
complete breakdown was imminent. The insidious 
poison of the malaria was sapping his strength, 
and the pace at which he was living gave him no 
chance to recuperate, so he was wearing himself 
out. 

“ He needs rest for both mind and body,” con- 
cluded this sapient advocate, “ and above all things 
he should be drawn from his present companions 
and brought under a noble woman’s influence. I 
wonder if Madeleine could save him. ” 

Isidore had the most unlimited confidence in 
66 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


67 


Madeleine. She was his sister ; and though twelve 
years his junior, he had made her his constant 
companion, and he loved her and believed in her 
with all the devotion of a strong man’s affection. 
They were indeed bound together by'ties that were 
peculiarly close, and Isidore had filled the place 
of both father and mother to the child, who had 
matured rapidly after the dark days had passed 
that had left them stranded without a home in 
this difficult world, and with the care of two small 
brothers and a baby sister upon their shoulders. 
He had been a young man then, barely twenty- 
eight, and she had been only sixteen, when they 
had been overwhelmed by calamity of the most 
frightful sort. Both parents were snatched away 
from them during the terrible Reign of Terror; 
and the brother, gathering within his strong arms 
all that was left of the once happy family, bore 
the children and Madeleine away with him to a 
distant part of the city, and there they had begun 
life all over again. 

Together he and his young sister had solved the 
problem of livelihood, and hand in hand they had 
struggled on and had watched over the others. 
But Bertrand’s first thought had always been for 


68 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN 


this dear companion, to whom the responsibilities 
of life had come so early, and his most earnest de- 
sire was to live for her, and to make up as far as 
he could for her lost youth. Endowed with keen 
perceptions and a quick mind, he had prospered; 
and though they had lived through hard days at 
first, he nursed his little capital until his own 
business abilities brought in plenty. Isidore was 
a very successful man as things go, but he always 
declared that the courage and enterprise that had 
made this possible were in a large measure due 
to the sympathy and understanding he had ever 
received from his favorite sister. In his turn, he 
had lavished upon her the most unceasing tender- 
ness, and he had trained and educated her mind 
in accordance with his own views, which were both 
broad and cultivated ; and she had thus learned as 
she grew up much that was best worth knowing, 
and her naturally fine mind had become developed 
and enriched. But the dark cloud that had hung 
over her childhood still lay above her, and she 
had never been able to free herself of its shadow. 
Constant intercourse with her brother, who from 
the very first had gravely treated her as his com- 
panion, discussing and explaining much that hap- 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


69 


pily does not often enter into the sheltered life of 
adolescence, gave her much to muse over, and 
left her more thoughtful and self-contained than is 
usually the case with young womanhood, while 
she bore upon her countenance the trace of the 
terrible sorrow whose mark had been ineffaceably 
stamped there. 

Naturally studious, she had learned much by 
herself that her various teachers had failed to im- 
part; and during long years the books she read and 
discussed with Isidore increased her capabilities. 
But as time went on and the pupil became a 
woman, Bertrand discovered, to his surprise, that 
their attitude had changed. It was she who now 
in many ways became the master. She inculcated 
the virtues of constancy and of patience. It was 
she who whispered hope in his heart in times of 
depression. She it was also, who was the first to 
rejoice at his success and, when wealth came, to 
teach him that thrift should be balanced by gen- 
erosity. 

Bertrand had been an uncompromising Republi- 
can, but the outrages committed in the sacred name 
of Liberty had made him sick, and he turned with 
loathing from the sea of blood that had swept over 


70 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


France. Bonaparte appeared to him as the rising 
star of his country’s future, and the hope and 
stronghold of a distraught and blood-drenched na- 
tion ; and he had hailed the meteor-like career of 
the “ Man of the Revolution” with an enthusiasm 
that made him blind to every fault of his idol, and 
left himself only as a stanch upholder and fol- 
lower. From the very first he had been carried 
away by the fascination that has influenced the 
world. A self-made man himself, he adored the 
man who, above all others, was carving out a 
future with the force of a surpassing genius. 
Madeleine was graver than her brother — less im- 
pulsive; but she was exceptionally steadfast. A 
daughter of the people, she looked to the people 
more than to the man, though she recognized his 
genius; and the principles of the Revolution, un- 
sullied by crime, appeared to her understanding 
and sympathy as a creed that was second only to 
that of her religion ; and the dream of what an 
ideal Republic might be was what she often pon- 
dered over. Like most of his class, Isidore had 
thrown over all religious beliefs, but Madeline 
clung tenaciously to the faith of her childhood 
that she had learned at her mother’s knee. 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


71 


At one time the Bertrands had dwelt in a small 
house that was situated in a narrow street of Passy ; 
but as times improved, and money swelled the 
lawyer’s resources, the borders of their habitation 
widened and they left the suburbs and re-entered 
Paris. They had moved once or twice after that, 
but settled definitely at last; and at the time of 
which we write were charmingly established in 
their own home, from the windows of which they 
could just catch glimpses of the waving tops of the 
chestnut trees in the Tuileries gardens, as they 
rose above the gold spear-points of the tall iron 
railings. The Bertrands’ home overlooked on the 
other side a cool, shaded court; and in the high- 
ceiled rooms of their dwelling Madeleine adminis- 
tered her household affairs. No matter how tired 
he was, Isidore always began to feel rested the 
moment he entered his own door, and he often 
wondered if other men loved their home as much 
as he did. Always neat and flower-adorned, sun- 
lit or shaded according to the season, the pleas- 
ant apartments were attractive to the eye as well 
as comforting to his physical needs; while the tall 
mistress of his castle, who met him every evening 
on its threshold, was still as loving and confiding 


72 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


as the little girl had been that he had often 
hushed to sleep upon his knee. There was some- 
thing in the touch of Madeleine’s hand, and also in 
the calm, low notes of her voice, that soothed and 
satisfied him completel3^ 

There is nothing more gratifying than the ac- 
quiescence of others in one’s own views, and Ber- 
trand was particularly sensitive to this form of 
flattery. Happily for them both, he and his sister 
were usually of accord, and even when Madeleine’s 
opinions differed from his, they were so tactfully 
expressed in spite of their firmness that he was 
never ruffled ; and such a thing as a jar between 
these close companions was never known. As 
time went on, the lawyer depended more and more 
upon her clear judgment and common-sense, while 
her intelligence caused him to take an ever-in- 
creasing delight in conversing with her, and thus, 
in this ideal intercourse between two bright minds, 
the difference in their ages dwindled to almost 
nothing. Knowing the power that this treasure 
of his possessed for the soothing of worried and 
perplexed man, Bertrand bethought himself of his 
sister when he became cognizant of the life Victor 
was leading. 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


73 


“ I wonder if Madeleine could save him,” he re- 
peated to himself. “ Victor d’Olonet is too good 
a fellow to be allowed to go to destruction. We 
must see what can be done.” 

One day the young officer called upon his law- 
yer, looking so desperately ill that Bertrand was 
startled. There was certainly no time to be lost, 
and he reproached himself for not having spoken 
sooner. He hated above all things to meddle with 
affairs that were no concern of his, but the case in 
point appeared to him very much like stretching 
out one’s hand to rescue a drowning man who 
was being carried out to sea on a dangerous tide. 
He proceeded, therefore, with the business on 
hand, but as he put his papers carefully together 
at its conclusion, he turned to his client interroga- 
tively : 

“ Was it not your father who was so celebrated 
for his wonderful rose-garden some years ago?” 

Victor’s face lighted up. “ Ah, if you could have 
seen it, you would not ask. My father was pas- 
sionately devoted to horticulture, and his gardens 
and conservatories were known all over France. 
Our roses were a veritable wonder, and I can well 
remember with what delight he used to gather 


74 


UNDER THE COR SICA A* . 


them himself, and how he loved to send the choic- 
est blossoms to his friends. Those were good 
times,” he added, under his breath. “But the 
roses did not grow on the old family estate in 
Brittany. We owned a smaller place near Ver- 
sailles, and it was there that they bloomed to such 
perfection. There were none finer at the Trianon 
itself.” 

“Perhaps you share the same taste?” resumed 
the lawyer. “Listen, my friend,” he said ear- 
nestly as he laid a firm hand on the young man’s 
arm. “ You are ill, and need rest ; and unless you 
take it, this life you are leading will inevitably kill 
you. Can you not pass a reasonable evening for 
once? My sister Madeleine and I will both feel 
honored if you will come to see our roses that she 
has cultivated with marvellous success in our small 
conservatory.” 

The wily advocate knew that he must lay bait 
in order to catch the ex-aristocrat. 

“I have heard of your sister,” said Victor. 
“ They say she is charming.” 

“ She is even more good than beautiful. I think 
her perfect, M. le Comte,” answered Bertrand 
gravely. 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


75 


The young man started, for Isidore had not only 
dropped the distasteful appellation of “citizen,” 
but he had given him his proper title. D’Olonet 
was intensely gratified. 

“I will come,” said he shortly. “Thank you 
for jmur hospitality. ” 

“You will find us quite alone,” Bertrand went 
on to say, “for Lili, my younger sister, is away 
visiting our uncle in Lyons; and Gaspard and 
Rene are only schoolboys.” 

When the appointed time arrived, Victor reached 
the Bertrands’ home, but he paused outside a mo- 
ment before entering. As he stood in the street 
he asked himself why he had accepted the cordial 
invitation, and an unwilling smile just loosened 
the corners of his mouth. In that instant of self- 
inquiry there came to him a sudden but very vivid 
preconception of the certain displeasure with 
which his mother would greet the news of his im- 
pending friendship. What had he, the head of 
one of the oldest families in France, to do with 
this bourgeois household? He impatiently thrust 
his hand within the breast of his tightly buttoned 
coat, and he turned to take a few rapid steps up 
and down on the wet sidewalk. It was drizzling 


76 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


again. The lights flickered and lit up the pave- 
ment, that had turned black with the moisture, 
and the dampness with which the atmosphere was 
saturated clung to the glass of the street-lamps 
and was blown in his face. It was not inviting 
out of doors, and the vision of a beautiful woman, 
and of roses blooming in great jars, flitted before 
his mental sight. Even as it came, he heard in 
imagination Anatole’s scornful laugh; and he 
actually felt the sting of unuttered words, for he 
knew so well what their purport would be. For 
a second, he was tempted to hail a passing cab 
and return to his own lodging, but the hesitation 
did not last. “ What has Anatole to do with my 
affairs?” he muttered. “And as for my mother, 
she has chosen to live in the stranger's land and 
to eat the bread of exile, which must be bitter 
enough; — but I am here and must judge for my- 
self who are to be my friends. She is just as proud 
as when she lived the life of a great lady on our 
own estates; — but that is all over now, and I 
am only a poor officer, with no home but the camp. 
I must take my pleasures as I find them. It is 
the people who are in the ascendant to-day; — 
but nobles and commoners are of the same race. 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


77 


Mon dieu! What does the social question matter, 
after all?” 

At that moment a distant burst of laughter, and 
a flash of light that streamed through a half-opened 
window across the way, brought back his dream 
of a smiling face and of fragrant flowers. The 
dampness and the detestable walking seemed 
doubly unattractive, while a consciousness of his 
own loneliness oppressed him. He lingered no 
longer. As he passed for the first time beneath 
the roof that sheltered the lawyer’s family, the 
die was cast that was to open many a new chapter 
in his own life. 

Continuing on his way, he gave his name to the 
servant who admitted him, and then he passed on 
up the broad flight of stairs upon the crimson car- 
pet that stretched from the wall on one side to the 
iron balustrade on the other. Its texture was soft 
and yielding, and impressed him with a sense of 
luxury. Arrived in the vestibule, he paused to 
remove his outer garments, and the incongruity 
of his position struck him again. Why had he 
come there, after all? What had he in common 
with these people? 

As he glanced about him he noticed that though 


78 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


the place was furnished with true republican sim- 
plicity, everything was good and substantial of its 
kind; and the servant who had carried away his 
wet coat was as well trained as any he had ever 
seen. An indescribable feeling of comfort and of 
well-being crept over Victor. There are some 
interiors that convey this impression at once, and 
even the ante-chamber is indicative of the home 
beyond. “ A soldier of fortune cannot choose,” he 
concluded, as he drew back to allow the servant 
to step on in advance to announce him. “ This 
certainly gives the promise of a more reposeful 
evening than the ones we are apt to pass in the 
back room of some small cafe or restaurant, drink- 
ing sour wine while the pther fellows manage to 
empty my pockets with the luck they always have 
at cards, but which persistently forsakes me. This 
bourgeois lawyer knows how to live, ma foi ! — and 
if his sister is as handsome as they say she is, the 
evening will be interesting.” 

In the general upheaval of things during the 
foregoing years, fortunes had been made and lost 
quickly, and Bertrand had been among the fortu- 
nate ones who had amassed very considerable 
property, and this, well invested, had brought a 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


79 


large income. Indulging his tastes, therefore — in 
which he was to a large extent guided by Made- 
leine’s sure eye and instinctive refinement — they 
lived in the greatest ease, not to say luxury. 

When the folding-doors were thrown back by 
the careful domestic, Victor saw before him a 
large room, where the lights were reflected from a 
highly polished floor of parquetry, except where 
it was covered in the centre by an Aubusson car- 
pet. The furniture was mostly of the Louis XVI. 
period and of the very best ; a few good pictures 
hung upon the walls, and a harpsichord stood in 
one corner beneath the shelter of a group of potted 
palms. Be5’’ond, glass doors opened into the con- 
servatory. A pair of rare Sevres vases stood on 
the mantel between the gilt clock and candelabra; 
and the soft light of wax candles that burned in a 
pair of sconces shone on either side. On a round 
table with heavily carved feet, that was placed di- 
rectly in the middle of the room, there was a lamp ; 
and beside it lay a litter of books and needle-work, 
A tepid air, in which the fragrance of flowers and 
a suggestion of wood-smoke were mingled, filled 
the apartment, and was perceptible to the visitor, 
who stood hat in hand upon the threshold, imbued 


8o 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


with just a shade of embarrassment as he turned 
toward his host, who, with his sister, arose from a 
low sofa near the fire and came toward him. 

As Victor looked he took in the whole pleasant 
picture at a glance, and his desire to withdraw 
melted like snow before the sun ; and so agreeable 
and winning did the prospect appear to him that 
a smile broke over his face and lit up the corners 
of his mouth, and overflowed into his laughing 
eyes as they fell upon the couple who welcomed 
him. 

Bertrand was distinctly bourgeois in type, and, 
in contrast, his sister’s peculiar refinement was 
the more striking. She was tall rather than short, 
having attained that indefinite height that can be 
queenly without becoming overpowering; and her 
figure was slender without being thin. Her hair, 
which constituted her chief glory, was of a rich, 
golden chestnut, and was divided into two waving 
masses, that were gathered together and twisted 
upon her head, according to the graceful fashion 
of those days, but it was not held in place by any 
confining bands; and the color of her abundant 
tresses enhanced the charm of her rather pale face 
and of her clear hazel eyes. Her features, that 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


8l 


when in repose were habitually sad, were illu- 
mined now by a smile that lent a rare loveliness; 
and her sensitive mouth and firm round chin were 
evidences of a strong nature well under control, 
although replete with intense, even passionate, 
feeling. It was an interesting, sympathetic face; 
and its attraction was more in its great sweetness 
than in any absolute beauty. It was essentially 
one to love. This impression was deepened by 
her voice, which was pitched in rather low but 
full, clear tones. 

“You are most welcome,” she said, as she ex- 
tended her hand after Bertrand’s hearty greeting. 
“ ]\Iy brother tells me that you are alone in Paris, 
and that you have been ill.” 

As she lifted her eyes to meet Victor’s, their 
glances met, and for the space of a second they 
each gazed straight into the depths of the other’s 
clear look; and even then, in that first moment of 
proximity, Victor felt a dim consciousness that the 
meeting was not an ordinary one. The last shred 
of his reluctance vanished, and his face flushed 
slightly as he bowed and responded in words of 
conventional politeness. Presently he found him- 
self seated with the others about the round table, 
6 


82 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


while conversation flowed easily and quickly into 
the current of the all-absorbing topics of those 
busy days But as he talked he found himself 
wondering at the wealth of her glorious locks, and 
he watched with an ever-increasing pleasure the 
changing expression of her eyes. They had a way 
of lighting up quickly with a kindling glance that 
thrilled him. There are hazel eyes that can flash 
brightly, and there are others clear and transpar- 
ent as amber, though shot with a darker color;- but 
hers were different. There was a depth in them 
that he could not fathom, and the hidden Are they 
concealed came and went as she became moved 
while she talked. It was there; and in a moment 
again it was gone, like the sudden flashing and 
disappearing of a distant light on a dark night. 
At other moments her eyes were calm, trustful, 
tender; but ever and anon came this strange 
gleam of an unsuspected power. She said nothing 
particular! )’■ striking herself, and it was Bertrand’s 
words that called it forth — words that breathed a 
loyalty, and daring, and energy, that made Victor 
glow at the thought of France’s future, and that 
sent soft pink waves of color beneath Madeleine’s 
transparent skin. Her assent, except for that 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


83 


spark of flame, was quiet enough. Bertrand took 
the lead, and she acquiesced. 

There are those whose personality pervades the 
atmosphere of the house they live in ; whose touch 
reveals their presence even through inanimate 
things, and with whom it is an inspiration to live. 
It is not in what they say so much as in what they 
do. The quick, tender hand, the intelligent eye, 
the sensitive mouth, convey what spoken words 
are ofttimes powerless to express. A room seems 
full when they are there; a house unutterably 
lonely when their gracious presence has departed. 
It is the intangible power of a strong, sweet na- 
ture, that pervades a home like the fragrance of 
flowers. It is among the choicest as it is among 
the least appreciated blessings of our lives; for 
this joy, when present, is too often accepted as a 
matter of course until, when bereft of it, we are 
entirely undone. 

Madeleine was a woman built on noble lines, 
both mentally and physically ; and she possessed to 
a great degree this quality of a pervasive personal- 
ity. The whole apartment breathed the influence 
of her thought and of her touch. As Victor 
d’Olonet sat in the mellow lamplight, he became 


84 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


impressed with a sense of repose and content; and 
he settled back comfortably in his deep armchair 
as he watched her sorting the colored silks she 
drew for her embroidery from the reticule at her 
side. It was the first glimpse of home life that he 
had had for years; the first evening of domestic 
lamplight and of crumbling logs, and of homely 
aspect, that he had ever passed under a stranger’s 
roof; — and his own, alas! lay in ruins. 

He had been a mere lad in the military school 
when his family had been scattered, and he had 
stubbornly refused exile. A lonely boy, he had 
remained where he was, even passing his vaca- 
tions there until the* time had come for him to 
enter the army. He had mixed somewhat in the 
strangely conglomerate society of Paris; but he 
had been too much under Anatole’s influence to 
shake loose from the doubtful revels of his small 
set, and in the larger gatherings he had felt alone, 
one of a throng of strangers ; — and when any fes- 
tivity was over he had only his desolate attic room 
to look forward to. It had all been so different 
from the absolute ease of this informal call. 

It was true that the evening held no other end- 
ing for him. The cold, lonely walk, and the bare 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


85 


lodging still waited for him; but in the meantime 
he had had some compensation. Here was com- 
panionship that was sweet and gentle, as refresh- 
ing to his soul as summer showers to a thirsty soil. 
It was something that made the riotous evenings 
with Anatole and the others seem distasteful, and 
he felt no inclination, either, for the rude frolic of 
the barracks. 

An hour slipped away imperceptibly. Bertrand 
rose at last and gathered the broken logs between 
the andirons together, and the glowing embers 
fell into a heap that sent a sudden puff of heat out 
into the room. Then they flared up again as the 
flame caught on the edges of fresh wood. They 
blazed, and danced, and shot up long red tongues, 
and their light lay on the burnished gold of Made- 
leine’s hair. The white cat, curled into a ball on 
its cushion, purred; Bertrand’s dog stretched him- 
self as he enjoyed the genial warmth, and lay un- 
reproached upon the skirt of his mistress’ gown. 
The moisture outside condensed as it fell upon the 
window, and ran down in an occasional audible 
trickle; but, for all that, the .shower was clearing, 
and the stars were getting ready to light Victor’s 
walk when he should choose to leave. The clock 


86 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


ticked away, and finally struck ten soft strokes; 
and then Madeleine motioned to her brother, and 
he rang for the tea. It was very beguiling, and 
reposeful ; and in his placid acceptance of the ease 
and rest of the present hour, d’Olonet had alto- 
gether forgotten the object of his visit until the 
lawyer himself broached the subject. Even then 
he was loath to leave the fireside, for premonitory 
chills of malaria were creeping down his shoul- 
ders. 

“You must show off your roses, Madeleine,” said 
Isidore. “ Lead the way, and I will follow with 
the light.” 

Who does not know that delicious odor of highly 
cultivated vegetation under glass, when the very 
mould seems to be fragrant, and the masses of 
color shine among the foliage, their beauty only 
vying with their sweetness? Madeleine knew and 
loved each plant, and she touched the petals softly 
as she moved between the rows of flower-pots, ex- 
plaining and exhibiting all to her guest. 

“The cold season never seems long or dreary,” 
she said, “ for I have my winter-garden. I pass 
hours among my plants and flowers, for I love them 
dearly and I think they love me.” 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


87 


“They are most fortunate to have such care,” 
murmured Victor, as he watched the well-formed 
hands tie up a loose spray of the climbing roses. 
Madeleine wore a dress of some soft material of a 
dovelike color, and this hung in easy folds as she 
stretched her hands upward to fasten the truant 
cluster, and the lace about her throat fell back 
loosely, displaying her white neck. She was 
pleased with her occupation and smiled as the 
nodding blossoms above caressed her hair with 
their tender touches — and when she had accom- 
plished her pretty task to her complete satisfac- 
tion, she cut one or two long stems, and, with a 
deft movement, laid them like a swath across her 
arm. Victor thought he had never seen anything 
so graceful. 

Finally, she led the way back to the shaded 
lights in the large room, and began to draw him 
out in conversation, as she embroidered and he 
lazily sipped his tea. 

“ Mademoiselle,” said d’Olonet, as he watched 
the movements of her slender fingers, “ I have 
placed myself in your brother’s hands. If he 
wins this suit for me, I shall have a moderate for- 
tune to depend upon.” 


88 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


“ And if he does not?” she asked, more with her 
eyes than with her lips. 

“ I shall have nothing left in the world,” he re- 
plied, “but my sword; — and my name,” he added, 
after a slight pause. “ The d’Olonets have always 
been brave and true,” 

“That is good,” said she softly. “It is an old 
name and an honor to those who bear it. I have 
often heard of your father. It was through his 
misfortune, not his fault, that he was called upon 
to expiate the sins of others." 

“You speak truly, mademoiselle. He was so 
good that all who knew him loved him. The old 
days, while he was still with us, remain as the 
happiest recollection of my childhood. And I also 
often think of the dear old chateau where my sister 
and I were born. I wish that you could see it as 
I picture it now in my mind’s eye, its gray walls 
showing at the end of a long avenue of trees. It 
was turret-crowned and moated, and it had re- 
sounding corridors and carved-stone stairways. 
Up on the roof, the tiles were covered with green 
and yellow lichens, they were so old; but we boys 
loved to climb up there and to look out over the 
country. The air was fresh and strong, and far 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


89 


away lay a line of blue water. That was the sea. 
Anatole d’Harcourt and I have been up among the 
eaves many a time, and have hunted for swallows 
that nested in the chimneys.” 

“ Tell me some more about it,” said Madeleine; 
and he gladly went on. 

“ The chateau stood on a hillside and the garden 
was laid out on terraces below, but the estate 
stretched away in every direction. We owned all 
the forests and all the fields about us. The lives 
we led were very happy and very peaceful, but 
my sister Antoinette and I had plenty of amuse- 
ment in spite of our long hours of study with the 
cur^. And there was life about the place too in 
those days, before I was sent to school and all the 
dreadful trouble began. In the summer season 
the house was full of company. One rode and 
hunted, and carriages came and went constantly 
with arriving and departing guests. Our doors 
alwa3^s stood open, and every one was served boun- 
tifully, as one should be in the home of a grand 
seigneur — and there was always music and danc- 
ing. On quiet winter evenings the curd used to 
come and dine, and afterwards played at piquet 
with my parents, and we children stood by and 


90 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


watched ; but after the lackey brought in the choco- 
late we were sent off to bed. I can remember it 
all so plainly! They loved us in the village. My 
mother used to be carried there in her sedan-chair, 
in order to visit the poor in their homes; and they 
blessed her when she passed, for she brought them 
warm clothes, or soup from the chateau kitchen. 
When my father rode past the peasant’s houses as 
he came home from the chase, he delighted to 
crack his whip for a signal, and then to scatter 
small coin for the poor lads to pick up. But we 
did not always live at ‘Beaulieu’; and I think 
that I like best to remember him in our little place 
near Versailles that he had turned into a perfect 
bower of beauty. It was there that he had his 
rose-garden that he so dearly loved. Every one 
who saw it said that it was only second to the 
queen’s own pleasure-ground at the little Trianon; 
— and all know that that was a marvel. My sister 
and I used to walk with our father, one on either 
side, as he followed the old gardener closely, tell- 
ing him just what to cut with his great shears. 
He was devoted to his roses and used to send large 
baskets of them to court. What joy it would have 
been could he have sent them to our poor queen 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


91 


when she was in the Temple and far from her own 
fair flowers, as a token of his faithful love ! But 
his own turn came at last.” Victor’s voice was 
choking. “ And they took him away to the Con- 
ciergerie, and they burned the pretty house and 
destroyed the garden; and then they turned us 
out of the dear old home in Brittany ; — and at last, 
after weeks of cruel waiting, they took his gra- 
cious, noble life.” He could say no more, and hid 
his face in both his hands as he finished. 

“My friend,” said a clear voice at his side, “I 
too have suffered. Both father and mother were 
taken from us, and life can never be the same 
again, for the shadow of that sacrifice must fall on 
it forever. They were, in the parlance of those 
days, ‘suspected’; and the Revolution turned on 
its own children and devoured them.” 

“Then, mademoiselle,” he exclaimed eagerly, 
“ we suffer in common; and you too will be glad 
to welcome the time when France may see her 
own return. I will build my chateau up again, 
and I will fill it with noble company; and, made- 
moiselle, I shall be proud to show you how we 
lived in the old times.” 

There was a moment’s pause, and as he looked 


92 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


up his face flushed with an excitement that had 
touched his deepest feelings. He had forgotten 
the feverish heat of tlie ague, and the wearing 
lassitude of the malarial chills that had drawn 
deep lines about his e 5 'es, and that had made the 
evening’s repose so grateful. He, looked, in his 
enthusiasm, well and strong, and his young face 
glowed with emotion. 

“We are of the people, sir,” she said proudly; 
and as she lifted her head defiantly, the light 
flashed from her eyes. They met his for an in- 
stant, and then she held out her hand impulsively. 

“On one ground we can meet, monsieur. You 
are in the army. Vive la Fra7ice ! ” 

“Yes,” he exclaimed fervently. “May defeat 
come to her foes without and to her enemies 
within !” 

“Brava,” said Bertrand’s voice from behind 
them, and he began to hum the “ Marseillaise” — but 
the woman only breathed “Amen.” 

“ No, Isidore,” begged Madeleine presently ; “ do 
not let us have that to-night. Let us think of 
something more peaceful. The winter, with its 
leaden skies, is over; spring has come, and soon 
these gray days will pass, and we shall have our 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


93 


flowers out of doors, and we can live ourselves in 
the open sunshine. Do you remember this?” she 
said, turning to Victor, “ It strikes a gentler note 
than that of Rouget de I’lsle;” — and she repeated 
in an undertone the opening lines of a graceful 
rondel that had come down from out of the fif- 
teenth century, a legacy of Charles d’Orldans: 

“ Le temps a laissie son manteau 
De vent, de froidure et de pluye, 

Et s’est vestu de brouderie, 

De soleil luyant, cler et beau. ’’ 

In response to Victor’s look of pleasure, she 
added quickly: “ The springtime is a new joy and 
wonder every year. Do you know those quaint 
old verses have a peculiar fascination for me? 
Bring the lights and I will sing for you.” 

The young men placed the tall silver candle- 
sticks upon the harpsichord. She seated herself 
before the instrument, and looked up as she nodded 
and smiled at them brightly, “This is an old 
one, too. Listen, ” Striking the keys, she trolled 
forth verse after verse of Ronsard’s song of the 
early year, written for his love while his heart 
was full of hope and of the pure joy of living, 


94 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


— and as vshe sang her face was all alight with 
pleasure, 

Victor could not take his eyes off her, as he 
stood directly opposite, with one hand thrust 
within the bosom of his double-breasted military 
coat, while with the other he gently tapped the 
cover of the harpsichord, keeping perfect time. 

“Ne laissons passer en vain 
Si soudain 

Les ans de nostre jeunesse” — 

he repeated. “ That is charming. Mile. Bertrand, 
Have you other words to sing as harbingers of the 
season of hope?” 

Its brightness was tardy in coming outside, but 
springtime was abroad in his heart that night. 

“No,” she said decidedly as she arose. “That 
is enough for one time, monsieur. You look ill 
and tired. Go home now to bed and rest, but 
come to us soon again.” 

She held out her hand in her own frank, cordial 
way; and as Victor bent to kiss it he murmured, 
“ This is the first happy evening I have passed 
since I came to Paris.” 

When he reached the street, his head was in a 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


95 


whirl, and he confessed to himself that he had 
found the lawyer’s sister altogether adorable, 
Anatole might scoff as much as he liked; such 
women were rare, and this new friendship was 
one to be cultivated. Before he returned to where 
he dwelt he took a turn by the river, in order to 
cool his throbbing temples, for he was burning 
with fever and his thoughts were in a tumult. 
Leaning on the stone balustrade of the Pont Neuf, 
he looked out at the glittering lights that twinkled 
in response to the myriad stars overhead in the 
intensely blue sky. A warmer air was wafted to 
him, for the rain-clouds had entirely passed away; 
and as his nostrils quivered, he became aware of 
the first breath of real spring, though April was 
still young, and his heart filled with the exulta- 
tion that comes to every one of us with the re- 
awakening of nature’s life. Was a new existence 
beginning for him also? The bare branches of the 
trees were silhouetted in the uncertain light, and 
he could see the looming walls of great buildings, 
and he noticed how distinctly the spires stood out 
in the night air. Only the distant rumble of occa- 
sional vehicles was heard. All was hushed, for 
the great city was sleeping. It is always a solemn 


96 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


sight when one is thus alone at night and looks 
out over the deserted streets, but Victor’s mind 
was occupied with other things. Madeleine had 
taken possession of his thoughts. “ Why should 
one care for class distinctions?” he reflected, as 
he saw again in imagination this lovely daughter 
of the people as she moved among the flowers with 
her graceful and noble carriage. Then he laughed 
to himself softly as he glanced down at his own 
coat, for did he not wear the livery of the Repub- 
lic that had said all men were equal? Alas, poor 
Republic, so irrevocably stained with blood and 
crime that no one dared to mention it! Now, it 
had become the Consulate, guided by one predomi- 
nating genius that was surely reaching out its 
hand to grasp imperial power in spite of its affected 
refusal. “The old things have passed away; we 
must arrange our lives anew.” The thought came 
with the pregnant force of conviction : “ If it were 
not too absurd, I should almost fancy myself in 
love,” muttered the young man; and then, as 
the night air struck him with a sudden chill, 
he shivered slightly and turned toward his lodg- 
ings. 

When he 'reached there, he found Anatole and 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


97 


the others waiting for him with their chairs drawn 
up around the table set for a midnight revel. 

“Take those things away,” he said wearily. 
“ I am tired and want to go to bed.” 

“Where have you been,” said de Boissy, with a 
sneer, “ that you do not care for our good fellow- 
ship?” 

“In Heaven,” he answered shortly; and when 
they had gone, he closed the door after them with 
a sigh of relief. 

7 


CHAPTER V. 


When Anatole reached the Sapin Veri that 
night and began to climb the steep stairs, he no- 
ticed that a light had been lit for his accommoda- 
tion, and the attention pleased him. Amand Gour- 
tain knew his business well, and was evidently 
aware that it was not an agreeable thing for a 
gentleman to be forced to stumble up the irregular 
steps in the dark. Just as this thought crossed 
d’Harcourt’s mind he noticed, crouched in a cor- 
ner of the corridor above the first landing, a small 
figure; and as he came closer he perceived that 
it was Gabrielle. 

“What are you doing here?” he exclaimed, in 
surprise. 

“Monsieur is late,” she replied reproachfully. 
“It must be long after midnight; and I have 
waited a great while. It was I who left the light. ” 

He gave vent to an ejaculation of annoyance, 
for he hated to be watched and followed about by 

her, but she laid a finger on her lips, in warning. 

98 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


99 


“Hush!” she said. “We must wake no one. 
What would my mother say if she knew that I was 
here?” She began to whimper, but put out her 
hand stealthily and took hold of the skirt of his 
coat. 

“Listen, M. d’Harcourt,” she began, and her 
breath came and went quickly. “ I must speak 
now, for I have waited and waited for days to get 
a word with you ; — but you have never had a smile 
or even a little look for me, though you used to 
be so kind. And I have been asking myself in 
what I have offended, for I cannot bear monsieur’s 
coldness any longer ; and his silence is killing me. ” 
She caught her breath and went on: “And I said 
to myself at last, it must be because monsieur’s 
mind is full of other things that he has no time 
for me; but I will wait for him at night, when no 
one else is near to scold me for troubling him, and 
I will ask him why this change has come, and I 
will tell him that his little Gabrielle is lonely. 
See, I wear the buttons and the silver buckles al- 
ways, and yet, though he gave them to me, mon- 
sieur has not even noticed them.” 

She gave a little sob, and the young man at first 
hardly knew whether to be angry or flattered. 


I oo 


UNDER THE CORSICAN 


“I have been busy,” he said at last. “One of 
my dearest friends has come to the city.” 

“I know it,” she answered sorrowfully, as her 
voice grew husky and the tears welled up and 
brimmed over. “ Then, all the good times are 
over. We can never again walk in the pleasant 
gardens, or go to the shops, or do the other things 
we used to do. I have waited day after day to get 
one little word, and, after all, it has only been to 
be told this.” 

“ But, Gabrielle, what do you want?” he asked, 
in perplexity. “You are a good child, and I will 
buy you toys again ; but you must not cry. ” 

He sat down on the upper step, and when she 
crept beside him he passed his arm about her 
waist, and her head dropped upon his shoulder as 
a matter of course. She was such a little thing, 
and her cheek was so soft and velvety when he 
stooped to kiss the tears away, that he did not 
mind at all when she snuggled closer. 

“ Do you really care for me, little one?” he asked, 
in the insinuating tones he knew so well how to 
use. He had put the question only a few days 
before, but the answer came with doubled fervor 


now. 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


loi 


She clasped his hand and carried it to her lips. 
They were warm and dewy as a child’s; and as 
he held her in his arms he could feel her trem- 
ble, while her heart fluttered like a frightened 
bird’s. 

“ Is it very wrong for me to tell monsieur how 
I love him?” 

“ No, my child ; it is not wrong to tell your best 
friend everything that you wish to. He will al- 
ways be good to you ; but you must promise to do 
what he tells you. Will you trust me, Gabri- 
elle? You see I am wiser and older than you are, 
and I must know what is right.” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“ And if I ask you some day to carry a message 
for me, your feet will travel fast, will they not? 
And you will only deliver it to the person I name 
to you?” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“ And, Gabrielle, you will never say to any one 
who it is that sends you, or who it is that my 
message is for?” 

“No, monsieur.” 

“ But will come home quickly; and then we will 
go out together again and buy cakes and syrup; 


102 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


and if I can find the money, you shall have some 
new ribbons.” 

“Yes, monsieur,” she assented gladly, but after 
a second she faltered: “ Is she beautiful, M. d’Har- 
court? Will she be kind to me?” 

“ Is who beautiful?” 

“ Why, the lady, of course, that monsieur visits, 
and to whom he will send the letters.” 

She was crying again, and Anatole felt the warm 
drops on his hand; but he understood it all now: 
the little girl was jealous. 

“No matter who it is that I write to,” he an- 
swered. “ Perhaps it is not to a lady at all. At 
any rate, nothing shall come between us. We are 
old friends, you know. Shall I tell you a secret, 
Gabrielle? It is to be ours alone, and no one else 
in the wide world shall have any idea what it is.” 
He drew a ring off his finger and solemnly put it 
on hers. “ See, this is our pledge. It means that 
we are great friends, and that we will do anything 
to help each other. That is our secret.” 

“ Anything, monsieur?” she asked, as her heart 
fluttered. “ The other is a real lady, you know. ” 

She was certainly very winning. The lamp 
shone directly on her face, and to Anatole it looked 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


103 


as innocent as a baby’s; and she. seemed just about 
as helpless. Her hair had become disordered, and 
it fell in a dark cloud on his shoulder; and as her 
lips parted he could see the gleam of her pretty 
teeth. As she nestled closer to him, he was con- 
scious of the soft, warm curves of her body; and 
under his palm he could still feel the palpitations 
of her heart. He wondered if the child really 
knew how wrong she had been to waylay him; 
but he felt no doubt as to her affection. They 
were all alone on the dim stairway. She was 
clinging to him, and was continually pressing her 
lips to his hand. Was there any other in the whole 
world who loved him so; any one of the fine ladies 
in his own station of life who cared for him as this 
child did, though she was only the daughter of his 
old servant? He gently disengaged his fingers 
and began to stroke her hair. 

“Anything, monsieur?’’ 

Why is it that the devil is ever near to tempt 
frail man? When the girl spoke, her companion 
only kissed her and whispered back, “ Everything, 
Gabrielle.’’ 

And she murmured, with a deep sigh of satisfac- 
tion, “Ah, we shall be so happy.’’ 


104 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


That brought him to himself, for he did not 
wish to pain her, and, besides, he hated a scene. 
Of course he meant to pet her as usual, and to 
give her presents, as he had always done. He was 
too indolent and too pleasure-loving also to ruth- 
lessly sever the bond between them, even though 
it might save the girl a future heartbreak. In- 
stead of doing this he whispered again, “ Remem- 
ber it is our pledge, but nobody must know.” 

“ But the lady,” she persisted. “ Will monsieur 
still visit the lady?” 

He laughed bitterly. “Oh, she will not care,” 
he said ; “ and, after all, I know so many. Only be 
true to me and nothing can ever separate us. 
But,” he added sternly, “if you disobey me, I will 
go to her every day. Come, child, kiss me for 
good-night. If you were found here, your father 
would be very angry.” 

Along clinging kiss, an embrace from soft arms, 
a rustle of skirts down the dark corridor, and she 
was gone. 

He went on to his own room and struck a light. 
Then he sat down at the table and began to write 
rapidly ; but his mind strayed, and his pen travelled 
more and more slowly until its work stopped en- 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


105 


tirely, and he paused to think as he leaned with 
his elbow upon his knee and his chin supported in 
his hand. Anatole was forming his plans. Of 
one thing he was certain. He had secured a tool 
that would never fail him, and he determined, with 
the utmost coolne.ss, to play upon the young girl’s 
affections, holding her thus in bondage to himself. 
He did not scorn to make use of anything that 
came in his way, and the cruelty of his purpose 
did not touch him in the least. 

His hand was tender to whatever he held in his 
grasp so long as his captive did not struggle, but 
he was capable of crushing it relentlessly in his 
unyielding hold if it proved to be an obstacle in 
his way. Utterly reckless of himself, he did not 
hesitate to sacrifice others. Wearied by the vacil- 
lating policy of his companions, he had almost de- 
termined to wait for them no longer, but to do the 
desperate deed himself upon which his mind was 
fixed; — and he hoped to obtain from Victor, with- 
out the latter having an idea of his designs, valu- 
able information in regard to Bonaparte’s move- 
ments, for d’Olonet was in constant intercourse 
with brother officers, and thus knew something of 
the arrangements of the consular household. But 


io6 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


before making his plans definitely, Anatole had 
several things to destroy or to dispose of. In his 
possession were lists of times and places, recipes 
for explosives, as well as correspondence with 
emigrated nobles that was highly incriminating to 
others besides himself. He felt that he must 
guard against anything falling into wrong hands 
in the event of failing in his purpose, or of his 
own destruction or arrest. If he should come to 
grief, the lot would fall on de Montfort — then on 
de Boissy. On d’Olonet? No, Heaven forbid! 
Anatole shivered at the very thought. The desire 
not to implicate this cherished friend was at least 
a vulnerable spot in his utter unscrupulousness. 

As he calmly thought out the situation, he con- 
cluded not to trust such papers as he wished to 
preserve out of his own hands until the very last 
moment, and in the meantime to make away with 
the rest without delay. The other men were so 
rash ; and they talked too much, particularly when 
they had been drinking. It would be easy to re- 
move a tile in the floor of his room and to hide 
beneath it such things as he wished to keep. It 
could be fastened down again, and no one would 
suspect the hiding-place. When the time came, 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


107 


he would tell Gabrielle of its existence, and he 
would instruct her to wait for news of him; but if 
he did not come back or send word within a certain 
time, she was to remove them and faithfully de- 
liver the package to whom it was addressed. That 
was his main purpose, and the details could be 
settled later. She would never know what the 
sealed parcel contained; and the work could still 
go on, the terrible machinery kept in motion by a 
young girl’s hand. The danger to which she 
would be exposed he did not consider for a mo- 
ment. He was sure of her, and that was all he 
required. “ A woman like that who is in love is 
as faithful as — as a dog,” he concluded. ‘‘And 
often she has not as much sense!” 

Anatole worked until very late, for he was con- 
sumed with a feverish desire to put his affairs in 
order. He could not tell when his opportunity 
might come, and all should be in readiness. His 
dark purpose was fast becoming a monomania that 
haunted him by day and by night, and there was 
no relief like activity. Usually it was physical 
exertion that he craved ; but at this time he felt 
that, unless he unloaded his mind in part of what 
was its burden by putting his personal concerns 


io8 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


in some kind of order, he should go mad. It was 
at least a present task that could be done, and any- 
thing was better than sitting still. There had 
been an expression on Victor’s face when he had 
wished him good-night that had spoken of great 
content. Where had the boy found it? His own 
troubled brain was throbbing, and he longed for 
rest. He wished that everything were over. 
Even the pains of purgatory would be almost wel- 
come were he but freed from this wearing load he 
was bearing; even the limitless, absolute nothing- 
ness of the “ Nirvana” seemed like peace; and he 
hardly knew which he believed in. 

Anatole had much to think of, and as the hours 
ticked away he glanced from time to time at the 
face of his watch as it lay on the table beside him. 
He had entanglements of various kinds. Perhaps 
there really was a lady; but if it W'ere so, he 
sternly put away the thought. He had buried all 
such dreams forever when he had formed his irre- 
vocable intentions. Other men might love : for h im 
there was no such future. And yet his heart was 
soft that night. Those clinging arms, and the 
fervent kisses that had rained from Gabrielle’s 
lips upon his hands, had touched him. Man is 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


109 


human after all, and even wicked thoughts cannot 
still all other impulses. But when tender recol- 
lections dawn in such a life, they are like a glow 
of sunset behind lowering clouds. He meant no 
real harm to the girl — nothing worse than the 
crushing out of her brightest hopes; and he was 
too selfish and too utterly self-absorbed to deny 
himself the luxury of her affection or the useful- 
ness of her devotion. What she might eventually 
suffer did not trouble him. He was a gentleman ; 
she was a toy, a plaything, as he looked upon such 
things. Heaven forgive him ! 

And so he wrote, and pondered, and frowned; 
and all the while the girl, the plaything, lay in 
her white bed on the other side of the house, in 
a tremble of delight. Monsieur loved her, she 
thought; and she wore his ring. It was what 
gentlemen always gave to ladies when they were 
betrothed, — and he had promised to do everything 
for her. Frangois Perin, from across the way, 
must cease to join her when she walked to mass 
with her parents on Sunday mornings. She could 
not imagine why her father thought him such a 
fine fellow. His hands were red and coarse, not 
at all like Monsieur’s; and he was an altogether 


no 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


common young butcher, with a rough voice that 
had no more music in it than a bass-drum. Mon- 
sieur’s, on the contrary, was soft and gentle, and 
full of a melody that melts the heart. She lay in 
a transport of bliss and ignorance until she was 
lost at last in happy dreams. Honest Armand 
Gourtain, all unconscious of his daughter’s frame 
of mind, was soon to reproach himself for having 
allowed her precocity to develop quickly by hav- 
ing formed the early habit of waiting on his 
guests. He would have done better to have left her 
longer with the good Sisters in the convent school. 

That night the stars shone brightly over the 
great city; and men and women, good and bad, 
slept on, unmindful of the sentinel eyes above, 
them. Even the nightly roamers of the streets 
hardly gave them a thought, or lifted their gaze 
above the earth and earthly things. Who ever 
does think constantly of the stars, or of the moon, 
or of the sun, or of most of the other daily and 
nightly gifts of beauty that are showered upon us 
until our contemplation of them becomes a habit, 
and they are taken as a matter of course? Excep- 
tional natures think differently, but they are choice 
souls, that are in the minority. And yet the stars 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


Ill 


come with a nightly message of hope, though the 
crowd passes and never lifts its eyes. Whenever 
the twinkling lights shed their mild radiance upon 
this weary, sin-laden but beautiful world of yet 
unimagined possibilities, it should be an augury 
of good, for they have been a sign of cheer ever 
since the time an unfailing beacon travelled across 
the eastern heavens as a sure guide to the hope of 
all mankind. And as they have served to point 
the way across wide and unknown seas, so have 
they also lifted their nocturnal lamps to be an in- 
spiration to the mortal who looks above ; but to 
find their light, one must gaze steadily on high. 
Down to us through the ages comes that heart- 
wringing cry of exceeding humanity that voiced 
Dante’s own bitterness and tenderness — faith, and 
love, and hope; and through its course comes ever 
the punctuations of the stars, for each division of 
that immortal song ends with the radiant hope of 
starlight. Ah, me! shall we, too, emerge from 
troubles and perplexities of time and place, of 
private dismay or of national calamity, and strong 
of mind and firm of purpose, in spite sometimes of 
our own utter undoing, still look upward, still see 
the heavenly lights ? 


I 12 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


As Anatole rose from his work and stood at the 
window gazing out at their radiance, he was 
hardly conscious of their beauty, but somehow, 
as he watched them, the thought of old days filled 
his mind, and his heart was touched with gentle 
recollections. How often he and Victor had 
climbed into the turret windows of the chateau in 
Brittany, and had watched for their coming; how 
pleased they had been to see their reflection in 
the waters of the moat! D’Olonet’s sister, Antoi- 
nette, had called them “ heavenly candles,” and 
she had learned their names faster than the boys 
had done. She had been quicker at everything 
than they had been, surpassing them in their 
studies as well as in music and dancing. What a 
change had come into his own life when he had 
been permitted to turn his back on his dull, lonely 
schoolroom at home, and to ride over daily to 
“ Beaulieu” in order to study with the brother and 
sister there! Ah, Antoinette! It had not been 
for long, but while they had lasted those hours 
had been bright and sweet. And then, all at once, 
everything had changed. The storm-cloud broke, 
and she and her mother had been carried away 
with the tide of retreating Royalists. He won- 


UNDER THE CORSICAN 


113 


dered if she had grown up straight and fair, as 
she had given promise of doing. He had not 
thought of her for a long time. Why should he 
do so to-night? Simply because the starlight re- 
flected from the bosom of a muddy puddle in the 
street had, by one of those mysterious tricks of 
memory, recalled the shining of the stars as they 
had been reflected from the encircling waters of 
the old castle in Brittany. Surely it was a rare 
pearl to have strayed so far. 

Anatole continued to think of her, and he re- 
called their childish compact to one day wed each 
other. They had even exchanged rings, and he 
now mechanically felt for his. He had worn it 
all these years, latterly on his little finger, for he 
had been loath to let this link of the past go from 
him. He felt for it now in the dark, but it was 
gone. Then he remembered, with a sharp pang, 
that Gabrielle wore it now. The recollection of 
this vexed him, and yet he had barely thought of 
Antoinette for years. Why was he passing his 
life in review now, and why was his heart so 
pierced with pain ? 

When he had parted from his friend a few hours 
before, Victor had told him that he had been “ in 
3 


UNDpR THE CORSICAN. 


114 


Heaven,” What had he meant by that ? Where 
had he really been ? His eyes were calm and 
clear, and when he spoke it had been in a voice 
both grave and tender. His face had looked 
gentler than Anatole had seen it of late, and his 
expression was as though he had breathed a 
prayer. Anatole tapped upon the window-pane, 
and gazed gloomily into the depths of the dark- 
blue vault, that lifted its dome over the populous 
city, whose feverish life now lay hushed in slum- 
ber. He was all alone; and, strange to say, he 
felt something like awe at the thought of his own 
solitude. The great towers of the cathedral lifted 
themselves upward and looked gigantic and sol- 
emn ; and when the penetrating tones of the bells 
reached his ears, they sounded like a call from 
above. Anatole was really far from insensible to 
such influences, and he was quick to respond to 
the effect of his surroundings. He was by nature 
sensuous. He loved all exquisite things: the soft 
texture of silks and satins, the graces and luxuries 
of life. Fate had withheld much from him ; but 
in spite of deprivations, the evidences of art still 
touched him as quickly as the contemplation of 
nature ; and form and color were as satisfying to 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


1^5 


his eye as music was calming to his senses. His 
palate called for the choicest viands and the finest 
wine, his sight for the loveliest women ; — but An- 
atole’s lines had fallen in hard places. 

To-night he was feeling softened by the recol- 
lections of his young life. Even the horrid de- 
termination that perpetually occupied his thoughts 
could not altogether blot out his better nature. 
Beneath his hot blood there flowed a calmer stream. 
Few suspected the intensity of feeling of which he 
was capable ; and yet, even as a boy, the passion- 
ate spring had been there. Once he had come 
home from riding in the forest on a spring day, 
when the newness of life had been in the air, and 
when the whole world rejoiced; and, unseen by 
any one but his Maker, he had flung himself 
down upon the turf, and out of the fulness of his 
heart he had thanked the Lord that the world was 
so beautiful. His soul was astir, but no one knew 
it ; and a moment later he had become the reserved, 
dark-browed lad again. Perhaps Victor had felt 
something of this in his own tentative gropings 
for the secret of life, and in spite of their imma- 
turity this had been one of the threads that had 
bound the two youths together. 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


1 16 


Was Anatole d’Harcourt musing now over his 
past because he already saw the fading of his own 
life and the failure of his fixed purpose? “An- 
toinette, Antoinette, I loved you as a boy can 
love!” he murmured. “Antoinette, ah, Antoi- 
nette, I believe that I love you now! Antoinette, 
why do I dream of you? Is it because that first 
awakening of my boyish heart comes back to me 
to-night? I have seen so much of the world since 
the old days, Antoinette; so much of sorrow 
and disappointment, and of sin. Are you still 
fresh and sweet, and as untouched by such 
things as of old; and do you still love flowers, 
and starlight, and all beautiful things? Is your 
voice like Victor’s? It used to be. Antoinette, 
give me back my youth and innocence ! Antoi- 
nette, to-night, for the first time since I lost 
you, a young girl’s tear has fallen on my hand. 
Ah, Antoinette, bring back my lost past!” he 
groaned. 

But it was too late. His lot was already cast. 
He and his companions were committed to the 
doing of a foul deed ; and upon the table before him 
lay the papers, a silent witness to their purpose. 
“ For the King! ” he muttered as he paced slowly 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


117 


up and down the floor with his hands clasped be- 
hind his back. The room was in confusion ; the 
bed was tumbled; the lights burned low. The 
stars glittered and looked in, unalterably steadfast 
in their shining; and as the conspirator turned 
toward them, he felt unspeakably lonely and weary. 
“ For the King! ” he repeated. “ It is a righteous 
cause; what does it matter, then, if one or two of 
us fall?” He put his hand to his brow to ease the 
pain that throbbed in his temples and stupefied his 
brain, and then he fell upon his knees before a 
crucifix that hung to the bare wall. Dominated 
by fatigue as well as by the great stress of his 
emotions, he remained prostrated before the image, 
while his lips moved with the words of Latin 
prayers that he uttered again and again in unceas- 
ing repetition, clinging tenaciously to this act of 
faith as a last means of grace. It was as though 
he would wring from Heaven its protection upon 
the distorted form of duty and loyalty that he had 
imposed upon himself. He became dazed as he 
continued to kneel on the comfortless tiles, while 
the inarticulate beseeching hung on his dry, white 
lips; and the cold, gray dawn crept in at last and 
found him there with the chill perspiration start- 


ii8 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


ing from his forehead, and with his hands clasped 
tightly. As his eyes closed, they had retained the 
impression of the crucified One as He hung above 
him with thorn-crowned brow;- and as the time 
silently .sped away, it seemed at last to the kneel- 
ing sinner that the compassionate eyes turned 
toward him mildly and that the face smiled. And 
then it also was as though the wooden figure moved 
and became imbued with life, while its eyes still 
remained fastened upon him. And in that strange 
and shadowy fashion, in which nothing comes to us 
in our waking hours, a form of gentle aspect stood 
at his side, and it bore the same features as those 
of the Man who had hung on the cross. It faded 
away and came again, and d’Harcourt stretched 
out his hands toward it in supplication ; and all at 
once, the vision appeared to materialize, and he 
fancied that he heard the low, sweet notes of a 
voice as pure and tender as the tones of far-off 
solemn music. “ My son,” it said, “ what wouldst 
thou do? Pause and think, and love thy enemies.” 
As it spoke the figure came and laid a finger on 
Anatole’s forehead. The touch was icy cold; 
and, with a start, he opened his eyes. Overcome 
by heavy slumber, he had fallen forward until he 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


119 


had touched with his face the chill tiles on the 
floor. 

Gathering himself together, he shivered, and 
got upon his feet, and passed his hands over his 
eyes. 

“ I must have been dreaming,” said Anatole. 


CHAPTER VI. 


A WHOLE week passed away, and still Victor had 
not gone near Madeleine, held back perhaps by 
some indescribable feeling of shyness, a most un- 
accountable thing for him, who was usually any- 
thing but backward in his intercourse with wo- 
men. Anatole had him in his power and led him as 
he willed ; for though he kept his eye upon the 
younger man, even cautioning him at times to be 
more careful of both health and money, his own 
example did not carry out the precept, and Victor 
gave himself but little rest as he followed the lead 
of his close companion. From time to time, how- 
ever, a feeling akin to shame came over him as he 
sat at the card-table flushed with wine. What 
would Madeleine say could she see him? 

Anatole had kept to himself all suggestion of 
his long night of distress and emotion, but Victor 
fancied that he grew more haggard and worn as 
the time passed, and that he also became increas- 
ingly cynical. Thus the days took their flight and 
120 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


121 


d’Olonet led his usual heedless life, though in the 
background of his thoughts there-remained the re- 
membrance of something better. 

Once as he and his friend were walking through 
the streets of what is called to-day “ the other side 
of the Seine,” they passed the open door of the old 
church of St. Etienne du Mont, and they paused 
a moment before the entrance, attracted by the 
passing show of a bridal procession. The lovely 
tower of the building stood in relief against the 
gray sky, and rose high above the steeply pitched 
gable of the edifice, looking like some slender 
guard who kept the strangely composed but pecul- 
iarly picturesque church in its keeping; and as 
the door swung back to admit the festal company 
beneath its protecting shadow, Victor noticed that 
the bride was blushing with happiness as she clung 
to her escort, and that she glanced up shyly at 
him when she stepped daintily across the thresh- 
old in her satin shoes. The party was of the 
middle class and very small, but it came like a 
streak of brightness on a dull day, and the girl’s 
look of absolute beatitude remained photographed 
on the young man’s mind. 

“Let us go in,” said Anatole. “ They tell me 


122 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


that the quHeuse for the alms to-day is simply 
lovely.” 

“A pretty woman is always worth seeing,” an- 
swered Victor carelessly, as they also passed be- 
neath the portal. 

The interior of St. Etienne du Mont is more 
than usually pleasing, and it fills one at once with 
a delightful sense of well-being, that is the essen- 
tial quality in the atmosphere of any surrounding 
to cause one to feel in sympathy with, and to be at 
home in its environment. The architecture is 
open and penetrable, the clerestory is in propor- 
tion low, and there are frequent lights from painted 
windows; while the unique and graceful spiral 
staircases that wind about the columns on each 
side of the beautiful rood-screen, lend a character 
that is all its own. As the young men entered 
they both touched the asperges-brush held out to 
them, and they crossed themselves; then they 
passed on into the nave. The lingering fragrance 
of incense lay on the air, here and there burned 
a light. The glint of the bride’s veil showed 
whitely in the distance, but the murmur of the 
priest’s consecrating voice did not reach to where 
they stood. Over everything there lay a hush that 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


123 


made the turmoil and bustle of the world seem far 
away; but in spite of this sacred quiet, even as 
Anatole bent his knee before the altar, his roving 
eye sought for what he was in quest of, and as 
Victor turned toward him, he saw at the same 
moment the woman upon whom the other’s in- 
solent stare was fastened. 

She was apparently absorbed in her devotions 
and entirely unconscious of the presence of other 
worshipers; and as d’Olonet’s eye fell on her he 
caught the line of her profile, and he noticed the 
color of her abundant locks that recalled a vision 
of something seen once before, and he started. 
No one in the world but Madeleine could possess 
that wonderful hair; and as he moved a few steps 
nearer to satisfy himself, he saw that it was really 
she. The light from behind touched her tresses 
into an aureole, as she knelt on her low prie-dieu. 
Her eyes were downcast, and she held between 
her clasped hands a rosary besides a velvet bag for 
the alms. She was absolutely motionless except 
for the inaudible movement of her lips, and the 
slight motion by which an occasional bead dropped 
from her fingers. Her face was sad — so pro- 
foundly sorrowful that Victor imagined that Ipe 


124 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


read there all her past woe, and a rush of warm 
feeling filled his heart. 

“ How beautihil she is! To have such a woman 
pray for one should save a man from any evil,” 
he thought. 

He could not bear to have Anatole look at her 
in the critical, unreverential manner that he had 
assumed. He would have examined a picture, or 
a jewel, or a horse even, in just the same way. It 
was like a sacrilege; and d’Olonet dragged him 
away almost fiercely to another part of the church. 

“Eh? but she is pretty, the little queteuse” 
said his companion flippantly. “ I wonder if she 
is doing penance for her sins.” 

There was nothing “ little” about Madeleine, 
mentally or physically. To Victor she was abso- 
lutely the most queenly of all the women he had 
ever seen. Her quiet dignity, and calm gentle 
strength, had affected him like the peace of a 
heaven’s Sabbath after the feverish existence of 
the world. His feeling for her amounted to ven- 
eration, she seemed to him so pure and high, so 
far removed from ordinary mortals; and he re- 
sented Anatole’stone. When the latter continued 
to scrutinize her appearance, and proceeded to 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


125 


coolly comment upon her magnificent hair, Victor 
could have strangled him. 

“Do you know her?” d’Harcourt asked in sur- 
prise. “A man is free to look at whom he likes; 
and any one who takes up the alms publicly must 
not expect to go unobserved. Mon Dieu! her 
beauty alone is enough to bring into her white 
hands many a gold bit that is dull in comparison 
with that glorious auburn hair of hers. It is 
wonderful ! Did you say that you had ever seen 
her before? What is her name?” 

“I have met mademoiselle,” answered Victor 
quietly, but in a tone that admitted of no discus- 
sion. “ Come away. It is unseemly to stare at 
any lady who is busy with her devotions.” 

Anatole only raised his eyebrows and pursed his 
lips, but whatever other faults he had, he was at 
least not indiscreet, so he followed his friend with- 
out a word. 

Victor’s heart beat quickly, for the sight of 
Madeleine had brought back with extraordinary 
clearness the remembrance of the one evening he 
had passed with her, and he longed to hear her 
voice again; but at the same time he felt the 
strongest disinclination to allow Anatole D’Har- 


126 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


court to meet his Madonna-like acquaintance. He 
knew that his aristocratic comrade scorned the 
bourgeoisie, and that if he discovered the station in 
life to which she belonged, he would be sure to 
speak of it in the scoffing tones he was an adept in 
using, and would undoubtedly reproach Victor for 
forming friends of inferior social station. D’Olonet 
was certain that if such slighting words came to 
his ears, he would be quite capable of knocking 
the speaker down. Anatole carried things rather 
too far for the times in which they lived. 

As they turned to go, Victor felt that he was 
excited as well as irritated by the other’s bearing; 
but he bit his lip and said nothing. On their 
way out his eye fell on old Therese, Madeleine’s 
maid, and he recognized her at once, for it had 
been she who had carried in the tea on the even- 
ing of his visit to the Bertrands. She, too, was 
kneeling but a few paces behind her lady; and 
beside her on the stone pavement stood a basket 
of roses. She was not too abstracted by her re- 
ligious duty to be unaware of the notice Madeleine 
had attracted ; and she glanced up stealthily from 
beneath her wrinkled eyelids. Though her lips 
were moving, her attention was quite alert, and 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


127 


Victor saw at once that she not only knew who he 
was, but that she was watching both him and 
D’Harcourt closely. He was willing to propitiate 
her, and at the same time to satisfy a sudden de- 
sire of his own. He therefore lagged behind his 
friend, in order to slip a coin in the old woman’s 
hand. 

“ Give me one of your flowers,” he said in a low, 
persuasive voice, “ and be sure to tell your mistress 
that it was I who asked for it.” 

“ Mademoiselle takes them to the poor in the 
hospital. Will monsieur rob /es pauvresV' 

"'Mon Dieu ! There are none who need them 
more than I,” he murmured with a half uttered 
bitter laugh, as he helped himself.- 

This episode had by no means escaped Anatole’s 
observation, and he looked at his companion 
sharply as they both stepped out into the open air. 
D’Olonet seemed moved and his young face was 
flushed, but he was absolutely silent. They 
walked on together thus for some moments, each 
one busy with his own thoughts, but Victor care- 
fully shielded his rose from the wind that was 
freshly blowing; and being obviously in an un- 
communicative frame of mind, his friend forbore 


128 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


to ask him any questions, although his own curios- 
ity was alert. Hitherto, his influence had been 
paramount, but it occurred to him now that an- 
other and a gentler one was at work. 

The air was mild, for the days of earl)’’ April 
were already giving promise of vernal sweetness, 
in spite of an occasional one that was yet damp 
and ungenial ; but Victor, rendered sensitive by 
the low condition of his system, still wore a heavy 
coat, though he often left it unfastened. As the 
flush of color died out of his cheeks he looked 
paler than ever, and the chills that were so con- 
stantly sapping his strength, returned to make 
him shiver, and he shook slightly as he buttoned' 
his garment now more closely across his chest. 

“Why, man, your teeth are chattering,” ex- 
claimed d’Harcourt, “and you areas pale as a 
ghost! Come with me and take a glass of some- 
thing that will stir your blood. You have no 
business to feel cold on a day like this unless you 
are really ill.” 

So Anatole drew him within the doors of the 
first cafd they passed and called for wine; and 
cheered by its warmth and distracted by his com- 
panion’s rattling conversation, Victor d’Olonet 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


129 


allowed the golden hours of the spring morning 
to slip away unheeded; but his first care upon sit- 
ting down had been to call for a carafe of water, 
into which he stuck Madeleine’s rose. Its fra- 
grance came to him like a faint whisper from the 
voice of his better nature, and it told him that 
there was still something in life worth living for 
that was sweet and pure; and moved also by his 
own innately refined nature, that began at last to 
assert itself, he questioned the satisfaction to be 
derived from the life he had been lately leading. 
He was at last beginning to be true to himself. 

Anatole mixed his own sugar and water and 
added the approved portion of something stronger, 
and Victor looked at him across the table as a mist 
gathered before his own eyes, and his head ached 
with such an excruciating pain that the words of 
the other’s conversation only came to him indis- 
tinctly. The white-aproned waiters moved over 
the sawdust-covered floor, voices rose and fell, 
the muffled rumble from the streets came through 
the window, and the fragrance of the flower on the 
table mingled with the fumes from Anatole’s 
glass. Victor knew that the latest issue of The 
Moniteur lay before him. As in a dream, he 
9 


130 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


heard his companion read from it of the impend- 
ing trial of the plotters supposed to be in collusion 
with Cadoudal. He knew that d’Harcourt was 
frowning as he went on, and that his voice sounded 
harsh, and that his steel-blue eyes flashed from 
under his dark eyebrows; but the distracting tor- 
ment in his own head made him indifferent to 
everything else, and all he wished for was the 
quiet of his lonely room. 

One cannot lead a reckless life with impunity, 
and Victor had reached the end of his endurance. 
Instead of going to visit Madeleine the following 
day, as he had determined to do from the moment 
he had caught sight of her in the old church, the 
very next morning saw him prostrated with an 
attack of fever, while the racking pain in his bones 
prevented him from even caring to leave his bed. 
He lay there alone in his bare room, absolutely 
uncomfortable and totally uncared for, until An- 
atole, coming in toward evening, found him almost 
unconscious. The lad’s condition seemed so alarm- 
ing to the inexperienced man that he sent at once 
for a Sister of Charity to come and watch beside 
his friend. He was utterly helpless himself, and 
wandered aimlessly about the room or stood in 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


131 


deep dejection at the foot of the bed as he gazed 
at the sufferer, who tossed about and talked inco- 
herently as his mind wandered through the mazes 
of his distress. Anatole was positively in the way, 
and the nurse, in despair over his clumsy efforts, 
begged him to send for a doctor and to leave the 
patient in her care alone. Then she lit a night- 
lamp and settled down to her professional and 
solitary vigil. 

Victor was very ill. Those many hours of 
neglect had told upon him, and he had lost all 
consciousness of his real surroundings. But, 
through the ravings of the fever that was burning 
him up, he still gave evidence of being half aware 
of his condition, and the sense of something left 
unaccomplished constantly troubled him. As he 
tossed and turned upon his uneasy couch, the names 
of both Bertrand and his sister were continually 
on his lips; and his caretaker, as well as Anatole, 
who returned early in the morning, were com- 
pletely bewildered by his rambling talk of roses. 
The poor invalid imagined himself walking among 
them; and'in his delirium he fancied that he was 
picking them, sometimes in the chateau garden at 
home, and sometimes in the conservatory in Paris. 


132 


UNDER THE CORSICAN 


It was all perfectly vague, and to d’Harcourt 
totally unreasonable, though, with one of those 
chance shots at truth that often go straight to the 
mark, he had in his own mind connected Victor’s 
mysterious allusions with the striking-looking 
penitent that they had come upon in the gray aisle 
of St. Etienne du Mont. He knew absolutely noth- 
ing about illness, and was promptly reduced to des- 
pair in regard to his friend. He never left him, but 
sat beside the bed hour after hour as he 
pondered upon what ought to be done. The 
nurse he had picked up proved to be entirely 
inefficient and dozed away most of her time, 
apparently consideriug her professional presence 
in itself sufficient; and the physician, -who was 
a busy man, came and went quickly twice a 
day. He left his orders, and seeing that the 
patient was not alone, supposed that his direc- 
tions were properly carried out. It came to pass, 
therefore, that between them all poor Victor 
was wofully slighted, and suffered for what he 
was most in need of — careful and intelligent 
watching. 

One day there came a knock at the door, and 
when it was opened Isidore Bertrand entered. He 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


133 


had missed his client, and yielding to a vague feel- 
ing of uneasiness, he had followed him up. From 
the very first he had felt strongly drawn to the 
young officer, and it had really worried the lawyer 
to know that Victor was so disregardful of his own 
good. This concern was entirely gratuitous on the 
part of the much-occupied man of affairs, but its 
existence was clear; and coupled with it was a self- 
imposed feeling of responsibility. The remem- 
brance of hig visitor’s white face, with the feverish 
flush that had come and gone, had remained to 
haunt the busy advocate’s mind, and would not be 
dispelled. The young fellow’s eye had been too 
clear, his bearing too self-contained and manly, 
not to win confidence; and Bertrand, who was 
a good judge of men, had felt convinced that 
his client had fallen into doubtful hands, but 
that he was intrinsically true and worthy of 
better things. This conviction had been growing 
ever since the first time that they had been 
thrown together, and the impression had been 
strengthened by the more intimate relations 
that had existed between them during their short 
social intercourse. The professional man liked 
the callow officer, and when Isidore Bertrand de- 


134 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


termined to be one’s friend, he could be depended 
upon. 

His quick eye now took everything in at a glance 
as he opened the sick man’s door; and coming to 
a conclusion rapidly, as was his habit, his plan was 
formed without loss of time, 

“ I will send Madeleine,” he said. 

Thus, when Victor came to himself, after that 
long period of distress, the first thing that he saw 
was the .spring sunshine falling on a mass of roses 
that filled a blue vase standing between the sashes 
of the double window ; and then letting his eyes 
follow the bright rays of light, they came upon the 
Bertrand’s servant Therese sitting calmly at the 
foot of .his bed, with her hands folded in her lap. 
The inattentive professional had gone, and the 
room was neat and filled with an intangible but 
pervading sensation of comfort that it had not 
known before. There was no sound save the 
ticking of the clock and the low hiss of a steaming 
kettle on the fire. The maid’s white cap glistened 
like freshly fallen snow, and on her spotless apron 
lay a ball of yarn with the knitting-needles stuck 
through it ready for use. She was apparently 
there for nothing but to wait upon him. He was 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


135 


too tired to think it all out, but he knew that he 
was being cared for, and in a perfectly satisfying 
way he felt that this care was coming from Ma- 
deleine; and so, with a sigh of content, he fell 
asleep again, and when he awoke he was much 
better. 


CHAPTER VII. 


During the long days that followed Victor saw 
Madeleine frequently. Sometimes she came with 
her brother, sometimes she called with her maid, 
but she never appeared alone; and whenever 
Therese accompanied her, she always carried a 
small basket of luxuries; and while her mistress 
watched, she became engaged in the preparation of 
invalid delicacies. For some time Victor was too 
weak to talk much, but he learned to listen for 
Madeleine’s light step, and he loved to follow her 
with his eyes as she moved about the room, put- 
ting everything to rights, and giving the womanl)’’ 
touches to his surroundings that are potent to 
transform any chaos of disorder into a haven of rest. 

He came to know each turn of her stately neck, 
and the soft rustle of her garments soothed him 
like music. Once or twice he tried to thank her, 
but she would let him say nothing, and with 
gentle insistence urged upon him the necessity of 

repose; and he was quite satisfied to lie still and 
136 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


137 


do as she wished. At last he was able to listen 
while she read to him, and once, in response to his 
earnest request, she sang again the song of the 
awakening year. 

“ Le temps a laissie son manteau 
De vent, de froidure et de pluye.” 

The spring had really come at last. Its sweet- 
ness was flooding the world; and Victor felt, as he 
slowly groped his way back to health and'strength, 
that he too was arousing from a long winter that 
had been to him a period of loneliness and neglect. 
He longed for the time to come when he might be 
alone with his benefactress; and he determined 
that he would ask her to help him keep out of the 
wild life for which, however, he experienced a 
sudden distaste. The voice still went on ; 

“Riviere, fontaine et ruisseau 
Portent, en livree jolie, 

Gouttes d’ argent d’orfevrerie, 

Chascun s’abille de nouveau : 

Le temps a laissie son manteau.” 

He turned his face to the wall, but Madeleine 
did not see that his eyes were wet. 

As the days lengthened and the patient grew 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


138 


Stronger, her visits became less frequent, and at 
last they ceased entirely. While he was helpless 
she had been glad to come, but the situation 
changed when his eager eyes looked at her plead- 
ingly, and he could no longer be restrained from 
murmuring the expression of his gratitude. His 
fervor evidently disconcerted her. The time had 
come for him to depend upon the attentions of the 
maid who still visited him daily. 

Anatole’s constant presence in the sick room 
had also complicated matters, and had made Mad- 
eleine feel from the very first that his was a nature 
with which she could never live in harmony, and 
she had been inspired at once with a shrinking 
from him. He had recognized her, with consider- 
able surprise, as the lady they had come upon in 
church on the morning of the day upon which 
Victor had been taken ill, and his curiosity would 
not rest until he had established her identity. 
When he discovered that the lovely quiteuse 
was simply the sister of his friend’s man of busi- 
ness, and not some lady of high degree, his lip 
curled, for he disapproved of d’Olonet’s demo- 
cratic associations. During the enforced inter- 
course to which Madeleine and Anatole were sub- 


UNDER THE COR SI CAN 


139 


jected, the latter was persistently ceremonious and 
polite, not to say attentive; but there was that in 
the expression of his cold blue eyes that made her 
shrink from him, and his smile even seemed to 
her to be touched with what was sinister. Being 
thrown with her under peculiar circumstances, he 
soon discovered what he fancied had attracted 
Victor, and d’Harcourt was by no means insen- 
sible himself to her charming personality in spite 
of his own prejudices; but Madeleine’s attitude 
toward himself was unapproachably cold and dis- 
tant though absolutely courteous, and he knew 
that any attempt at familiarity on his part would 
be an impossibility. To do him justice, in this 
instance he felt no inclination for gallantry, and 
even admitted an unwilling admiration for her in 
spite of his disdain of the whole bourgeois class. 
There was something about her that impelled this 
homage ; but it would have been as easy to ap- 
proach Minerva herself, as to bestow upon this un- 
bending regent of the sick room any mark of the 
approbation that he always felt for a handsome 
woman in any class of life whatever, and which 
he was not usually slow in disclosing. 

Her calm, and to him totally unbending de- 


140 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


meanor, attracted him greatly, though it still held 
him at a distanee; and yet more, he was im- 
pressed with a species of unacknowledged awe, 
which he resented and was, however, unable to re- 
sist. Her individuality permeated the whole in- 
terior of the apartment like the penetrating sweet- 
ness of the soft spring air; and even the cynic was 
touched, for he knew that, though an impassable 
gulf lay between themselves, she could be gentle- 
ness itself to others, and he could not but feel that 
Victor was blessed to have her care. His own 
feelings were therefore contradictory; but she had 
one unwavering sensation — and that was that 
she distrusted him. 

“She brings in with her,” he said one day to . 
Victor, “a whole cathedral’s atmosphere of peace 
and quiet; but I verily believe that it would take 
the fire of the tropics to melt your snow-pure god- 
dess. Where did you find such a queen-like lady, 
and why does this golden chestnut-haired divinity 
waste her pains upon a poor little officer of the 
Consulate, who is now harvesting a whole crop 
of wild oats?” 

He spoke jestingly, but he was in reality piqued 
at her utter indifference to himself. 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


141 


Victor sat in his armchair by the window and 
was lost in thought. He was still too feeble for 
prolonged effort of any kind; and book, or gazette, 
or feuilleton would drop from his long, white 
fingers, as he looked out of doors and rejoiced in 
the rejuvenating sunshine, and listened to the 
twitter of the sparrows. His window was filled 
with growing plants, and far below him in the 
street he could hear the cry of the flower-venders 
as they trundled their bright wares to the market. 
The sound of life was borne up to him as it flowed 
ceaselessly through the arteries of the great city; 
and when the door-like panes were thrown back to 
admit the air, the cheerful bustle was inspiriting 
and quite distinct from what arose from the mud 
and slush deluged streets of winter. It was as 
though the whole world were moving on, and he 
alone had stood still. 

Every day Anatole brought to him a nosegay 
twisted into a huge sheet of white paper, and the 
flowers were always the best that the market 
afforded. There were the saffron-colored crocus, 
as well as daffodils and fragrant hyacinths, to 
gladden his eyes; and the scent of the blossoms 
filled him with tender recollections. And every 


142 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


morning a youth who had driven his goats all the 
way from the Pyrenees, in the hope of sure profit 
from Parisian custom, paused by d’Harcourt’s 
orders, with his long-haired, shaggy friends, be- 
neath the invalid’s window, and played a tune on 
his reed pipe. Then Anatole descended to fetch 
with his own hands the bowl of fresh bubbling 
milk that his convalescing charge found so in- 
vigorating; and Jehannot, the goat-herd, never 
failed to wave his flat beret as he disappeared 
around the corner with his flock, and to call back 
gayly: '''A de?nain, monsieur." 

Anatole used to feel in one pocket for the coin 
that was to pay for the strengthening drink, and 
in the other for the paper filled with coarse gray 
salt, with which he loved to feed the animals as 
they crowded about him, bleating and thrusting 
their nibbling muzzles in his hands. It was a 
strange spectacle to see the dark-browed man so 
occupied, but simple things often pleased him. 
And once, over the cover of the bowl, there lay a 
bunch of wood violets. “ Yesterday was Sunday,” 
explained the goat-driver in his southern accent, 
that sounded quite unusual to Parisian ears, and 
he smiled so that he showed his white teeth, “ and 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


143 


I drove the creatures out of the city for a crop of 
fresh grass. It was then that I plucked the flow- 
ers. Bofis soiihaits pour le gue'r iso n de monsieur ” 

Victor and Anatole had lost sight of the others 
of their company during these days. Several 
young officers had creaked up the narrow stairs in 
their heavy boots and had whispered at the door ; 
de Montfort had knocked and had left messages, 
but d’Harcourt would admit no one; and his solic- 
itude for his friend banished for the moment all 
other considerations, though his owm dark plans 
were not really forgotten. He hung over his 
charge with a jealous care, and his resentment of 
bourgeois interference soon gave way to profound 
gratitude. As time progressed, however, this 
changed to chagrin, for do what he would, he was 
unable to advance a step toward nearer relations 
with Madeleine, and it irritated him to see that 
she continued to almost avoid him. 

Three weeks had passed, and they were still 
complete strangers to each other; and when she 
no longer came to nurse her patient, Anatole dis- 
covered, to his own intense annoyance, that he 
could not expel her from his thoughts, and that 
the sick room seemed almost empty. As for 


144 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


Isidore, he detested him in a way that he barely 
disguised. This .the lawyer fully reciprocated, 
but he managed, with perfectly unruffled temper, 
to transfix the other with trenchant speeches that 
were so politely worded that open offence was im- 
possible. They cordially disliked each other, but 
personal antipathy was curbed on the neutral 
ground of Victor’s chamber; and though it in- 
furiated the nobleman to be forced to accept in- 
direct favors, he had still found it impossible to 
remove himself from the fascination of Madeleine’s 
presence, while now that she had gone, the void 
that she left made him, for the first time, fully real- 
ize how completely she had filled the room before. 
He would have been surprised had he known in 
just what way he had affected her, and would cer- 
tainly not have been flattered. She declared that 
there was something of the glitter of the serpent’s 
eye in his glance, and though she constantly tried 
to shake off its influence, it still possessed a power 
that held her enchained and made her feel most 
uncomfortable. She never felt at her ease when 
he was near. 

Anatole came and went — tall, dark, graceful, and 
aristocratic in his bearing; and whenever he bent 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


MS 


his searching look upon her she shivered, but she 
knew not wh5^ It was thus a strange party that 
had gathered together beneath the modest roof of 
Victor’s lodging, and of them all, he was the one 
who gave the least thought to outside things. 
The others snatched the time they passed there 
from lives that were filled with various aims; he 
was like a ship that had come to port and had 
dropped anchor. However, as strength returned, 
he began also to long for something else, and the 
desire for renewed activity made itself felt. This 
feeling, but half recognized at first, grew steadily 
after Madeleine’s visits ceased, and during the 
tedious hours of his convalescence he thought of 
her continually. 

And on his gentle lady’s part he was by no 
means forgotten, and her thoughts dwelt constantly 
on the invalid she had nursed, though now her place 
was taken by a substitute. The weeks that had 
gone had left a deep impress on her mind and 
had touched her very nearly; there had been 
something so pathetic in the young officer’s condi- 
tion. He had been extremely docile and patient, 
and she had been strongly drawn to him from the 
first, giving him the affection that one is apt to 

lO 


146 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


feel for what is dependent on one’s care, until at 
last, she learned to be more and more interested in 
his present, and also became concerned for his 
future. Thus a certain intimacy was established, 
the roots of which lay in the unusual circumstance 
that had brought them together; but while his feel- 
ing for her approached worship, her strongest one 
for him was still that of commiseration, though .she 
missed him more than she had thought possible. 
Her patient care had been a matter of course, and 
she had tended him just as she might have one of 
her own young brothers, and she worried about 
him much in the same way that she would have 
done for them; and thinking of him affectionately, 
she at the same time longed to help him. She 
pitied the lad with all the strength of her noble 
heart; and the possibility of the young life going 
to waste had filled her with unspeakable regret, 
and she resolved that when he was once more able 
to live as usual in the world, something must be 
done to make him realize its dangers. Victor’s 
personality was most appealing; and unknown to 
herself, a tiny seed had already been sown in her 
heart that was to bear much fruit. But she was 
unaware of this as yet, and her attitude toward him 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


147 


was almost motherly. She felt so much older — 
ah ! so much older than her charge — that her solici- 
tude had been protective from the beginning, and 
the care and thought of others had been the habit 
of her life. This maternal instinct made her forget 
that she was a young woman and he a young man, 
after all: and that she was his senior by only two 
years! Bertrand had done a dangerous thing 
when he had sent her to care for the young Count 
in his desolation. 

Women usually mature earlier than men, and 
her naturally earnest disposition had been de- 
veloped and deepened by all she had suffered ; and 
while Victor’s sorrows had made him reckless, 
hers had but moulded her character into strength 
and gentleness : but there was the same current of 
absolute sincerity in them both, and, their natures 
coming into juxtaposition, they met as affinities. 
He had seemed very young indeed to her as she 
had looked at his handsome boyish face, and, with 
a positive feeling of tenderness, she determined to 
try and keep him from wrong. She knew that 
he had been wild; she even guessed that it had 
been easy to lead him into forbidden paths; but 
she forgave him this weakness, for she never for a 


148 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


moment doubted his own assertion that the 
d’ Olonets had alwa)"S been “ brave and true. ” His 
undisciplined habits of life would pass. Thus, 
with an unexplained combination of indulgence 
and growing affection, she came to regard him in 
the light of a younger brother at last, and she felt 
inclined to help him just as she was always ready 
with head or hand to assist Rene and Gaspard 
when they came home from the Lycee full of their 
schemes, that demanded her help and sympathy. 
“ Poor fellow, he must marry and settle down in 
a home of his own,” she thought; and in her 
great compassion, she was ready to place his hand 
in that of the first maiden of noble lineage who 
should appear. She told herself that this would 
give her pleasure, but she did not fully under- 
stand her own sensitive nature, and failed to recog- 
nize the birth of a deeper feeling that was already 
alive in her heart. That his natural associations 
would claim Victor again she never doubted. For 
herself and family things were different, and she 
supposed that in the course of time she and Isidore 
would gradually lose sight of their aristocratic 
friend. 

So Madeleine calmly tended her roses and 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


149 


waited, with her heart full of kindness; but she 
was often lost in thought, and a sad smile hovered 
about her lips. 

During all this time the tavern on the other 
side of the river had held an anxious and troubled 
heart. Gabrielle saw Anatole come and go from 
the Sa/>m Vert, and as she watched him she noticed 
that his face was often clouded and that his brows 
were drawn. Sometimes he hurriedly ran up- 
stairs and after a rapid change of toilet went out 
again, walking quickly toward that part of the 
city that was separated from their own quarter 
by the River Seine. He rarely took the time to 
speak to her; and when he did so, though his 
words were u.sually kind, he was so visibly preoc- 
cupied that what he said gave her but little satis- 
faction. In vain she decked herself out in her 
best; in vain she waited to waylay him as he came 
in and out, hoping to win him back by her pretty 
pouting ways, and the ready tears that he had once 
been so ready to kiss away. She even held up her 
hand when he passed, so that the candle-light might 
fall on the gold ring that he had given her; but it 
never caught his eye, and he took no note of any- 
thing that she said or did. Gabrielle’s heart grad- 


15 ° 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


ually filled with pain, then with jealousy and de- 
spair; and she began at last to think that, after all, 
the stories she had heard were true, and that the 
attentions of gentlemen to poor girls meant noth- 
ing. “And yet,” she pondered, “if it were not 
for that fine lady who lives somewhere near the 
Tuileries and the Louvre, quite far from here, 
he would sometimes think of me. He used to be 
so kind, and he has often said that he knew no 
eyes so bright or cheeks so red as mine.” 

As Gabrielle brooded over her trouble, it gradu- 
ally dawned upon her that certainty would, at any 
rate, be better than the present wearing anxiety ; 
and she determined that she would find out who 
the lady was. She felt that she must see her for 
herself and discover if the woman of quality was 
really so beautiful that the remembrance of her 
own neat figure could be completely blotted out of 
d’Harcourt’s mind. That her own appearance 
was attractive she knew very well ; and she fully 
appreciated her charms as she often stood and 
complacently gazed into the mirror, smoothing 
out the wrinkles in her short-waisted gown, twist- 
ing over her finger the rebellious ringlets that had 
strayed from their fastenings, and giving to her 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


151 


apparel quick, deft touches, that showed each fold 
or ribbon to the best advantage. And she used to 
stand on tiptoe upon a cricket, and turn herself 
about in order to get a better view of her back in 
the long looking-glass of that tiny railed-in office 
of the taproom. She admired herself sincerely, 
and could not understand Anatole’s forgetfulness. 

The feeling of unrest grew upon her until she 
could no longer control her impulse to see for her- 
self the charmer who held the recreant d’Harcourt 
in her toils. He had evaded Gabrielle’s inquiries 
before, and she was too proud to ask again; and 
so, jumping to a conclusion, like many a rash 
maiden before her, she built up a fabrication of 
circumstances that really only existed in her im- 
agination. Much cogitation fostered this impres- 
sion ; and one day, after she had seen him start 
out, she quickly threw an apron over her glossy 
black locks and followed him at a distance, her 
heart beating violently as a trip-hammer the 
while, and her cheeks glowing like two pink ca- 
mellias. She felt exactly as she had done on the 
night when she had waited for him on the stairs, 
except that now the feeling had grown, and added 
to it there was a greater spice of jealousy. 


152 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


She was dreadfully afraid that he would see her, 
and she frequently paused, panting, behind some 
news-kiosk or tree whenever she inadvertently 
came too near; and then, her fear allayed, she 
hastened on again in her anxiety not to lose sight 
of him in the crowd. Once she ran into a huge 
water-carrier, a peasant from the Auvergne, and 
she heard his coarse voice swearing at her as she 
fled from the cascade of water that poured from 
the tub strapped to his shoulders when she had 
made him stumble. A seller of honey, carrying a 
golden pile on a platter that he balanced nicely 
on his head, shouted with glee and clapped his 
hands as she escaped, and pointed after her with 
arms encased in white covers that matched the 
freshness of his long apron and cap. A boy from 
the pastry-cook’s, still crunching a succulent stolen 
morsel, exploded in a burst of merriment, and an 
urchin sitting on the curb with his feet in the 
gutter called out in the argof of the slums, as he 
gave vent to his admiration of her agility. Last 
of all, a bronzed veteran from the wars, who stood 
lazily leaning against a wall, added his word to 
the chorus of amusement as he pulled his gray 
whiskers and his gaunt shoulders shook. There 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


153 


is something so childish in the French nature that 
the veriest trifle is apt to wake their sense of 
humor. 

Fearful lest the noise would attract Anatole’s 
attention, and yet in terror of losing him, she 
hastened on without looking behind, in her con- 
fusion nearly falling beneath the wheels of a pass- 
ing fiacre. But he had heard nothing, and went 
on his w'ay quickly without turning his head; and 
she, rendered more careful by experience, kept at 
a judicious distance as she followed him swiftly, 
with her eyes fixed steadily on his drab coat. 
They were just passing in front of the Tour St. 
Jacques, when she saw him suddenly stop and look 
up; and at the same moment a lady approached, 
followed by her maid, who carried a basket the 
top of which was carefully covered with a white 
cloth. The lady w'as Madeleine, and she was com- 
ing back with Therese from an errand in a distant 
part of the city. 

When Gabrielle first caught sight of the couple, 
she noticed the masses of beautiful hair that 
adorned the lady’s head, and she saw that it shone 
in the clear light like red gold. The innkeeper’s 
daughter was instantly impressed with her stateli- 


154 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


ness and grace, and was also attracted by her 
pleasant smile, and would undoubtedly have ad- 
mired the newcomer greatly had she not seen 
d’Harcourt step forward and greet her with a look 
of pleasure that spoke volumes to the lynx-eyed 
watcher. That was enough. She felt convinced 
at once that she had found what she was in quest 
of, and, closing her white teeth so tightly over her 
red lip that the blood started, she waited with 
every sense alert. 

A word or two passed between the man and wo- 
man, but Gabrielle could not hear what was said. 
The lady apparently gave her consent to some- 
thing asked, for Anatole turned and walked on 
beside her. He seemed to be on familiar terms 
even with the maid, for he nodded to her care- 
lessly. Then the three went on, and Gabrielle 
could see that the lady and her escort were 
talking together earnestly. Victor lived not far 
from the Louvre, in one of the streets that 
run beside the Palais Royal, and his friends 
were on their way to him, so the trio soon 
turned out of the more crowded thoroughfare 
and entered a narrower one. The girl followed 
only a few steps behind, and saw when they rang 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


155 


af the door of a rather dismal-looking house. 
Presently they were admitted by a red-bonneted 
concierge, and all three disappeared inside the 
entrance. 

Gabrielle stood alone in the street and took 
careful note of the building, and as she did so her 
eyes retained the vision of the retreating figures; 
and the remembrance of the woman with the 
chestnut-colored locks coming to her with extra- 
ordinary distinctness, she felt herself choking with 
rage. 

“Ah!” she cried, shaking her fist at the closed 
door, “ I have found you at last — you who are 
within, where I may not enter! If you are beauti- 
ful, so am I ! We shall see who shall win. Of 
course he will marry the lady — but he loved me 
once, and he shall love me again!” 

She drew his ring from off her finger, and in 
her anger she would have thrown it away, but 
his words came back to her with pregnant force: 
“ Remember, it is our pledge,” and she slowly re- 
placed it. 

How little she knew! At that very moment 
Madeleine was saying to Anatole, stiffly: “If mon- 
sieur will kindly leave us, my servant and I will 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


156 


watch. He may return and take charge in the 
afternoon, when we will leave.” 

He looked at her across the foot of Victor’s bed. 
The patient lay with closed eyes and disturbed, 
feverish breathing. 

“Kindly depart, monsieur,” repeated the low, 
sweet voice, “and do not talk, for noise will 
trouble his rest, and'sleep is imperative.” 

She stood there, straight as a young pine-tree, 
merciful as a Sister of Charity in her virginal 
purity, as unbending as a goddess of light; and 
the wearied man of the world, sated with sights 
and sounds of every kind of dissipation, full of the 
importance of his own aristocratic but decadent 
race, bowed silently before this daughter of the 
bourgeoisie., and left the room obediently without 
even looking back at the Madonna-like face. By 
the time he reached the street Gabrielle had gone, 
and she was walking back to the Sapin Vert with an 
energy that attracted the attention of the passers- 
by. She felt angry, and she looked it; and the 
gentler feelings that could refine her face having 
died out, the coarseness of her descent showed in 
the indelicate lines of her mouth, and in her com- 
monplace beauty born alone of good health and 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


157 


youth. The tip-tilted nose, that gave her a certain 
piquant expression, now appeared simply pert. 
The prettiness of the soubrette was veiled. 

That very day Anatole d’Harcourt had thought: 
“Poor little Gabrielle! I have almost forgotten 
her of late. I must try and scrape some bits of 
silver together and buy her a present. My mind 
has been so full of Victor I have had no time for 
her — and foi de gentilho7nme ! that Mile. Ber- 
trand dazzles one with her queen-like beauty.” 
He forgot all about his intention presently; and 
though the kind thought had been there, Gabrielle 
never had cognizance of it, and remained un- 
mollified. 

This all happened during the first fortnight of 
Victor’s illness, and by the time he was convales- 
cent and able to go out, she had nursed her wrath 
and jealousy until their proportions had greatly 
increased; but as yet she had done nothing but 
keep up her furtive watch on Anatole. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


Victor improved so rapidly that by the first day 
of May he was able to call on the Bertrands. He 
was accompanied by Anatole, who declared that 
the invalid was still too weak to walk there alone. 
As they threaded their way through the busy 
streets, it seemed to d’Olonet that they had never 
been so full of life and movement before. Fresh 
from the seclusion of his own quiet room, the stir 
at first confused him, and proved how far from 
strong he really was. He enjoyed it, though, and 
drew in long, deep draughts of the outside air; 
and his eye brightened as he felt himself once 
more about to take his place in the tumult of exis- 
tence. 

Uniforms mingled freely with the wearers of 
civilian dress; the sound of drum and fife was 
continually heard, and flags fluttered and waved. 
There was a constant coming and going, an over- 
flowing energy and activity, and superabundant 
gayety of sight and sound, that was very inspiring ; 


• UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


159 


and the snn, shining in clear skies, poured a flood 
of radiant yellow light over the Tuileries gardens, 
and lay peacefully on the gray walls that had en- 
closed so much history of a frightful kind. Paris 
was alert: art, letters, building, were all receiv- 
ing a new impulse, and the glitter of returning 
brilliancy and glory acted like a tonic upon the 
volatile people. 

That spring the rumbling of great events was 
in the air, and it was confidently asserted that the 
“ First Consul for Life” was about to assume the 
imperial dignity. A motion was actually pre- 
sented in the Tribunate on April 30th — although 
Bonaparte had already made a feint of declining 
the honor — and when put to the vote, met with 
very little opposition. The principles of the Re- 
public and the Directory had indeed been radically 
changed, and the Consulate had steadily altered 
the face of everything. In the event of a new court, 
it was inevitable that social distinctions should 
become even more confused than they were, and 
the ambition of many aspiring commoners was 
aroused by the prospect. The great event that 
was to satisfy many ambitions, though already in 
the near future, had approached so gradually that 


i6o 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


most of the people who might have taken alarm 
shortly before were now only pleased. Already 
the simplicity of earlier manners had given way 
to another order of things, and at the Tuileries 
and at St. Cloud a rigorous etiquette was ob- 
served. Much state was used at official functions, 
which were held with an ever-increasing formality. 
Liveried servants were in waiting at every corner 
of the palaces, and Josephine already presided at 
receptions in a manner that was almost regal. 
Her victorious husband was the cynosure of all 
eyes. From the moment when, before the Church 
of St. Roch, he had turned the cannon on the 
howling mob, expectant France had waited for 
him, and she had not been disappointed, while a 
merciful Providence still veiled from all eyes the 
carnage and disaster of the future. It was freely 
said that the impending Empire was to be but the 
exaggeration of the Consulate. 

In 1800, Louis had written from his exile that he 
had need of Bonaparte to restore order in France 
and himself to his throne; — and the man of des- 
tiny had answered, addressing the head of the 
Bourbons simply as “ Monsieur,” when he told him 
that to return to his inheritance he would have to 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


i6i 


march over the corpses of five hundred thousand 
Frenchmen. “ I am not insensible to the misfor-^ 
tunes of your family,” he wrote, and he offered to 
contribute to their support. Even then he felt the 
sceptre in his grasp, and filled with inordinate 
ambition, he had no intention of letting it go. At 
the same time, the knowledge of Louis’ existence 
discomforted him, and this was undoubtedly one 
of the reasons that urged him to push his authority 
to the utmost when he had permitted d’Enghien’s 
arrest and execution. The effect of the horror 
inspired by this act of injustice was already be- 
ginning to wear off, however, and the minds of the 
fickle people were turning to other things; and 
they had, in truth, much to occupy them besides 
the fate of the rest of the conspirators yet await- 
ing trial. 

Antatole d’Harcourt had watched the course of 
events closely, and he was in no way dazzled by 
the growing popularity of the new chief. As 
Victor had become more and more indejjendent of 
his care, his friend had resumed his own old train 
of thought, and the projects that had for a time re- 
mained dormant returned again to his mind. He 
even met with de Boissy and de Montfort once 

II 


i 62 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


more for the purpose of considering future plans, 
•but he discouraged hasty action, and became 
privately more than ever determined to assume 
the whole responsibility himself. He was therefore 
content to lie in wait, like some crafty beast of prey, 
until the blow could be struck surely. Moreover, 
he had learned to know a new side of life during 
the past weeks, and he felt a great reluctance to 
at once sever the associations that had been estab- 
lished with Victor’s friends. His very inability 
to produce any visible effect upon Madeleine 
spurred him on to greater efforts, for he hated to 
be baffled. Her indifference vexed him, though 
he would not admit that he cared for her regard. 
To any one else he would have expressed his ad- 
miration openly, but he quailed before the glance 
of her clear hazel eyes and did not attempt any 
familiarity, though he determined that in some 
way he would break down the barriers of her re- 
serve. It was the desire to see her again that had 
really prompted him to accompany Victor on that 
first visit made in order to express grateful recog- 
nition of her care. 

As they walked along the broad thoroughfare, 
known to the whole world to-day by its name of 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


163 


de Rivoli, given in honor of the conqueror of Italy, 
Bonaparte passed with his escort. The crowd 
cheered, but Anatole looked up contemptuously. 
'‘'Canaille” he muttered between his closed teeth, 
and he brought his rather oblique eyebrows to- 
gether when he saw that Victor gazed after him 
eagerly and saluted. 

When they entered the Bertrand home, 
d’Olonet stepped on in advance and led the way 
up the red-carpeted stair as one who had a right 
to show the road; and his friend followed with 
feelings of satisfaction at the idea of visiting 
Madeleine under her own roof and of curiosity to 
see how she lived there. 

In the ante-chamber they found her two young 
brothers, Gaspard and Rene, who were engaged 
in fencing with blunted foils. They escaped 
down a long passage at the approach of strangers, 
and paused in the distance to hazard conjectures 
as to who the newcomers might be. They had 
never before seen either the pale, almost boyish- 
looking officer, or his dark-browed, imposing-look- 
ing companion, who was dressed with a certain 
elegance that seemed striking to their eyes. Ana- 
tole still wore his hair in a cue tied with a black 


164 


UNDER THE CORSICAN 


ribbon ; and though he might be starving, he 
always contrived when in Paris to appear well, 
even modishly, attired ; — and thanks to the atten- 
tion bestowed upon his much-worn clothes by the 
ex-valet and his tidy daughter, many deficiencies 
were glossed over. 

Entering Madeleine’s pleasant sa/on the young 
men were greeted with tlm sweet graciousness that 
always made her so charming; and they were then 
invited to take a cup of chocolate in the conser- 
vatory, where the glass had been thrown back to 
admit the soft spring air. Anatolelaida hand on 
his heart and bowed low as he held open the door 
to let her pass. 

“ I am your most obedient servant, mademoi- 
selle,” he said. 

Isidore entered a moment later, and all four 
gathered about a round iron, marble-topped table. 
The breeze blew in gently, ruffling Madeleine’s 
shining locks, and lifting the edge of her lace- 
bordered fichu that she wore over her dress of ten- 
der gray. Her eyes were beaming, and she did 
not disguise her pleasure at the young men’s visit 
as she dispensed her hospitality with charming 
grace. Victor felt that it was very good to be there. 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


165 


Anatole watched her as he rested his chin on the 
top of his gold-headed cane, and he surreptitiously 
smoothed out his own fine ruffles — while Bertrand 
in his precise suit of black and Victor in his mili- 
tary redingote were a foil to the greater elegance 
of the other two. The plants made a background 
of living green, and the delicate Sevres cups on the 
table beside the beautiful silver pitcher that held 
the steaming chocolate, completed the picture of 
refined luxury. 

Conversation being general, it naturally turned 
quickly to the event of the day before, when that 
all-important motion had been made in the Tribu- 
nate, demanding that the government of the Re- 
public should be confided to an Emperor, and that 
the Empire should be made hereditary in the 
family of Napoleon Bonaparte. 

All Paris was ringing with the news, and when 
Isidore explained that the title of Emperor in 
reality only meant “Victorious Consul,” he was 
but voicing the popular demand that the people’s 
idol should not only be crowned, but receive a 
plausible title. Isidore also alluded to the num- 
ber of the old nobles who were gradually returning 
to France, attracted by the magnet of metropolitan 


i66 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


life, now that order had been restored to Paris; and 
he hinted that they would not be slow to avail 
themselves of any indulgence offered by Bona- 
parte. The lawyer confidently prophesied that in 
the very near future the capital was destined to 
possess a real court again. 

He became animated as he talked, and he was 
so carried away by his subject that he did not 
notice how Anatole’s expression changed. 

“I was at the opera the other night,” he went 
on to say, “ and when the First Consul and his wife 
entered their box, everyone in the house arose and 
remained standing until the illustrious couple sat 
down. It was but the honor due to their station, 
and this matter of increasing ceremony means 
much. It is surely coming, this dynasty chosen 
by and founded by the people, and France shall 
flourish under its protection, and the rest of the 
world must tremble.” 

“In that case,” said d’Harcourt, with a covert 
sneer, “ we certainly must endure to see the sem- 
blance of a court, though I fear that the elements 
that will compose it may be somewhat heteroge- 
neous.” He turned toward Madeleine. “Made- 
moiselle, you will doubtless wish to appear there, 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


167 


and the assembly will be much graced by your 
charms.” 

His words were polite, and he inclined cour- 
teously toward her, but the superciliousness of his 
manner had not been veiled, and Madeleine’s eyes 
flashed with a dangerous light. Victor, seeing 
this, half arose, and his hand sought for his sword. 
Both felt at the same moment an implied disre- 
spect. 

“They tell me,” continued Anatole imperturb- 
ably as he delicately shook the snuff from his fin- 
gers and closed the enamelled box — a relic of bet- 
ter days — with a snap, “ that the First Consul is a 
great admirer of beauty. Therefore, mademoi- 
selle, you will certainly find a welcome there; and 
a fine parti may thus be easily won in these days of 
rapid fortunes. I think, however, that we are all 
agreed that the long-inherited title of Count is 
more to be coveted than that of a newly created 
Prince.” 

The insinuation was too plain to be mistaken, 
and d’Harcourt learned that he had gone a step 
too far. 

“Monsieur!” cried Victor, while his eyes blazed. 

But Madeleine had risen and was standing, with 


i68 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


one hand resting on the table. Now she drew 
herself up to her full height as she answered 
loftily: “Monsieur has strangely forgotten him- 
self. I do not doubt that in the future there will 
be an increase of intriguers of both noble and 
plebeian birth, for I have learned that they flour- 
ish in the atmosphere of courts ; but so long as the 
tricolor waves over the one to come and above the 
homes of our people, I think that we may remain 
confident that the true women of France will 
know how to maintain their dignity. Your arm, 
monsieur,” she said, turning to Victor, and placing 
her hand upon it, she grandly swept out of the 
room. 

For one moment Anatole stood as if dazed; but 
though he had met his match, he quickl}" recovered 
himself and, touched with a feeling of real shame, 
he hastened after her. Bending his knee, he 
stooped to kiss her hand with pretty, old-world 
courtesy, and he said humbly enough : “ Forgive 
me. Mademoiselle Bertrand. I apologize for my 
presumption. Women of your stamp are unusual, 
and I shall be the truer gentleman for having met 
you.” 

“It is already forgotten, monsieur,” replied 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


169 


Madeleine, and she looked up with one of those 
rare, sweet smiles that are as precious as a tardy 
gleam of sunlight on a dull day; and even Victor 
was satisfied. 

The rest of that day Anatole wandered aim- 
lessly about the city. D’Olonet’s face of perfect 
contentment haunted him ; and as he remembered 
how the lad had looked when he had left him 
standing beside the noble woman that he claimed 
for his friend, it seemed to the older man that 
Victor had grown taller. He had stood there as 
her protector, with his face all aglow at the thought 
of the significance of his position; and he had 
held himself amazingly erect, while his eyes had 
filled with the light born of the strength of a new 
manhood. 

“Victor is safe,” thought Anatole d’Harcourt. 
“ When the time comes, I can leave him in bet- 
ter hands than mine; and as for his rank, in these 
chaotic times he must take care of that for him- 
self. Noblesse oblige, ’tis true, but, foi de gentil- 
homme! a woman like mademoiselle is one of 
Nature’s queens, after all.” 

He was in a strangely unsettled mood himself, 
and did not return to the Rue des Trois Canettes 


170 


UNDEk THE CORSICAN. 


until long- after he had supped parsimoniously and 
in solitude within the uninviting interior of a cook- 
shop or gargote in the Rue du Temple. His finances 
would admit of nothing better that evening, and 
he was so utterly wearied both in mind and body 
that he actually dozed over the soiled copy of the 
gazette that he had found upon the greasy table. 
He might have had an omelet for nothing at 
the Sapin Vert, but he was already so deeply in 
debt to Armand Gourtain that he was willing to 
content himself with what a sorry fortune pro- 
vided elsewhere . 

When he at last crossed the square in front of 
the great cathedral on his way to the inn, the 
facade of the mighty church looked unreal in the 
ghostly light as it towered above him, and famil- 
iar as he was with it, its immensity that night 
seemed to crush him. There it stood upon its own 
solid basis, its beauty wedded to the weird world 
of uncouth gargoyles and finials, les chimlres de 
Notre Dame., that recalled a note from the roar 
of the tumultuous, misty past. The uncanny 
folk enthroned in petrified state have kept guard 
over the siren-like city below as the centuries have 
run their course, and among them there is one 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


171 


strange human face peering into futurity. What 
have the years brought to that yearning, importu- 
nate gaze? What is yet to come? 

Those eyes have looked upon the turmoil of the 
Middle Ages, the terrible license of later years; 
upon pomp and glory, poverty and sin. Kings 
have passed in and out beneath the sculptured 
portals, beggars have waited there for alms, 
criminals have sought the refuge of the sanctuary. 
Before the parvis have clamored riotous mobs. 
Beneath the aegis of the church, men, women, 
and children have been christened, wedded, 
buried. And the ever-changing years of the 
city’s life still roll on, of which the great 
metropolitan temple is both the epitome and the 
sign. 

Above the seething world swing the bells. 
They have pealed on high while Te Detims have 
been sung below. The great Bourdon called 
Jacqueline, that first rang for the Angelus in 1472, 
has been articulate with France’s history ever 
since, The whole gamut from horror to delight 
has been rung in the diapason of the aerial music. 
The fearful exultation of the tocsin’s call, the 
blissful notes of returning peace, the mournful 


172 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


tolling for the illustrious dead, uttered through 
the clanging of iron tongues, have reached the 
waiting ears of the citizens. 

The bells of victory have also been incessant, 
and already in 1804 the chiming for the Napo- 
leonic series was well under way, and the sound 
was to go on swelling until it announced the 
last of the triumphs that virtually laid the world 
at the conqueror’s feet. 

Some such rush of thought surged vaguely 
through Anatole’s mind as he stood alone before 
the great edifice, thinking of the past and appre- 
hensively trying to pierce the future. Then he 
whispered so low that only the night wind caught 
the words and hurried them on : “ And yet this 
hand of mine can stop the blatant ringing. If 
opportunity will only favor me, the world has 
already heard the last crash of bells for Bonaparte. 
My time is surely near, but before it comes, I 
must see a priest and confess once more.” 

A cold chill crept over him and lay like the 
grasp of icy fingers about his heart. He was filled 
with a sudden fear that threatened to unman him ; 
but this was not a dread of possible defeat or 
death ; it was alarm at the dawning of a new love 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


173 


in his life that he should he forced to fight down 
with relentless energy. 

The city roared and muttered that night and at 
last sank to a short-lived rest, but Anatole heard 
nothing. He, too, had fallen asleep, and through 
his uneasy slumber a vision came to him. He 
saw again the wealth of her burnished chestnut 
locks, her drooping eyelids over calm, true, hazel 
eyes — he gloried in the splendid curves of her 
figure, the turn of her neck, in her fine, white, 
supple hands. The vision that he saw was of 
something that was more than human; it was of 
a goddess almost, or of some strong, pure heroine 
of an epic poem. But he knew that her face 
could fill with an earthly tenderness and compas- 
sion, for he had seen a transcendent womanliness 
there when she had won his dearest friend back 
to life — but from himself, she turned away her 
eyes. 

In his distress he half awoke and tried to push 
the apparition from him; and at last, fully 
aroused, he lay silently, listening to the beating 
of his own heart that hammered and throbbed in 
his breast as it had never done before in the face 
of bodily danger; until at last, relief came and 


174 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


he sank into the complete repose of a dreamless 
sleep. 

He did not know that Gabriellehad watched for 
him when he had come in, had followed him up 
the long stairs, and had waited in the dim corridor 
without his room. He had not heard her sobs, 
and was unconscious that she lay on the cold tiles 
listening to his long, slow breathing after he had 
fallen asleep. Nor had he any idea that, attracted 
by a gleam of light that had found its way through 
a crack of the ill-fitting door, she had placed her eye 
to the key-hole and had watched him as he lay on 
his knees before the crucifix while he prayed. The 
premonition that the opportunity that he longed for 
was near at hand, had been strong upon him ; and 
turning with determination from all softening in- 
fluences, he had told his beads with the desperate 
earnestness of the fanatic refusing to receive aught 
but a blessing from heaven upon his undertaking. 

And yet the merciful Father was still watching 
above the stars ; and the Madonna and Child dyed 
upon the stained glass of the great church, looked 
upward with supplicating gaze that seemed to say: 
“ Great God, forgive him ; he knows not what he 
is about to do.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


The long May days lengthened out in sunshine, 
and Victor assiduously visited his charming 
friend; and during this constant intercourse they 
were drawn more closely to each other, and their 
acquaintance quickly ripened into something 
deeper. Madeleine listened for his eager tread in 
the antechamber, and was rewarded by hearing 
it nearly every day, and when he came in to her 
as she sat in the drawing-room, with his still pale 
face momentarily flushed with exercise and with 
pleasurable expectations, and with his brown hair 
pushed back carelessly from off his forehead, he 
looked so bright and winning that her heart went 
out to him freely, and she settled herself comfort- 
ably to listen to whatever he had come to tell her. 
It had resolved itself into this, and Madeleine 
with her calm, clear mind, had become his helper 
and mentor, and he appealed to her for sympathy 
and advice in everything. 

They had much to talk about, and he hid noth- 

175 


176 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


ing from her as they discussed his failures in the 
past and his hope^ for the future. He always 
found her full of help, and her strong nature acted 
like a tonic upon his more volatile one. He told 
her everything, even to the plan his mother in 
far-off Dresden had formed with an old friend of 
his father’s who had settled there, which was to 
result in a match between his young daughter and 
Victor himself. He laughed disdainfully as he 
spoke of it, in spite of his knowledge of the excel- 
lent marriage portion that his proposed bride 
could bring; and he told Madeleine that he had 
never seen the young lady, who was still pursuing 
her studies in a convent. 

“Besides,” he said, “my honor is not in the 
least involved, for I have pledged myself to noth- 
ing.” His voice sank, and he added in earnest 
tones: “Since I have come to Paris I have learned 
that I can only be happy by the side of a truly 
noble woman — like yourself, mademoiselle. ” And 
then he had looked up with such a world of devo- 
tion in his eyes, that Madeleine could only drop 
her own while a faint color stole into her cheeks. 

She knew that she should not listen to him, 
though it was sweet to do so. His duty to his 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


177 


mother, his half-engagement to another, as well 
as their own different antecedents, all pointed to 
a future for him that lay far from the path in life 
that was open to the lawyer’s sister; and her sense 
of uprightness forbade any desire to lure him 
away from his natural course. She felt so much 
older, too! She therefore told herself that she 
loved him as a brother only, and at the time she 
really believed it, but the thought came with infi- 
nite tenderness. 

This matter of two years’ seniority was at once a 
convenient and a dangerous thing, for it allowed 
much, and permitted an intimacy to be estab- 
lished on what was really most unstable ground ; 
and Madeleine accepted the situation, taking it 
for granted that his disparity in years made actual 
wooing impossible. She was not much troubled 
by the small conventionalities of society, never 
dreaming of the necessity of the chaperon to 
which all French girls are accustomed — so he and 
she were thrown together constantly and alone; 
and in this fostering atmosphere of repose and 
happiness their love grew apace like a fair flower. 

She had been mistress of the house since early 

childhood, and had carried on her willing 
12 


178 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


shoulders far more than the light burdens that 
usually come to young years, so the position that 
she had assumed toward him seemed perfectly 
natural, and the sister-mother who had always 
cared for her brothers and sister without thought 
of self, quietly adopted this new-comer who had 
appeared in her home. Lili had led a far more 
joyous existence. Sheltered and watched over by 
her older sister, she had been spared every pain 
and responsibility that the other could shield her 
from. Her nature was different from Madeleine's, 
for she was extremely vivacious, and gay as a bird ; 
and pretty, with the freshness of youth, she was a 
very flower for gallants to circulate about. Being 
immensely proud of her, Madeleine had sunk her 
own maidenhood in the younger girl’s, and had 
watched over her as though she were her own 
child. She was so much graver herself, that she 
fancied, sometimes, that Lili had absorbed into 
her sprightly life, not only her own share of 
youth, but also what had belonged to her elder 
sister — but it never occurred to the latter to regret 
any joy she might have had herself, and only re- 
joiced that she had been able to supply so full a 
portion to the little girl growing up beside her. 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


179 


Madeleine and Victor often talked of the future. 
They were apt to sit by the open window quite 
close together. As I have said, they were usually 
alone, for Bertrand was busy over his affairs and 
away from home during the greater part of the 
day. The boys were at school, and Lili had not 
yet returned from Lyons. The two whose lives 
were flowing on so peacefully were quite content 
to have it so. Victor picked up her work when 
she dropped it, or played with her skeins of silk as 
he sat beside her, and was foolishly happy the 
while. Sometimes, at her solicitation, he read 
aloud; and often they hung together over the 
spinet as she sang old tunes or picked out new 
ones. It was the old, old story, that is yet ever 
new in its varied setting. 

But one small, dark spot clouded their clear 
skies, and this was Madeleine’s shrinking from 
Anatole. She could not overcome her aversion 
to him, or yet shake off that charm-like spell that 
he threw about her. She felt the force of his char- 
acter and she dreaded its influence, but she could 
hardly tell what it was that she feared. When- 
ever she saw him she felt a foreboding of evil, and 
yet was drawn to listen to what he said, with a 


i8o 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


sense of what seemed to be almost admiration, but 
which was in reality but a tacit acknowledgment 
of his power. There was something mesmeric in 
this subtle force of his that it was impossible to 
either understand or to avoid. He came quite 
often in the evening and sat almost silently in the 
lamp-light, his dark brow contracted, and his 
aristocratic hands playing with his fob. The 
grasp of those long white fingers with their pol- 
ished, carefully tended nails, always suggested 
something cruel — not coarse brutality, but the re- 
fined type that might learn to strangle a victim 
with a silken cord. He was often moody, but burst 
out now and again in brilliant flashes of wit or of 
biting invective. She wished that he would not 
come, and yet when he did not, she alwa)’’s 
missed him. 

On his part, he could not keep away. His 
visits to her had become his one chosen recrea- 
tion and rest. At other times his mind was intent 
upon “stalking his game,” as he expressed his ac- 
tion in his own words. He haunted the opera the 
nights that Bonaparte was there, he went con- 
stantly to the theatre when Miles. Georges and 
Duchenois played, for he knew of the great man’s 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


l8l 


admiration for them ; and he mixed with the crowd 
and tried to get near him whenever the chance 
occurred. He even lay in wait at the doors of 
churches and of public offices, but the ruler was 
well guarded, and no chance to approach him of- 
fered. After a period of fruitless waiting, Anatole 
called at the despised lawyer’s, and while Made- 
leine and Victor drew closely together in happy 
companionship, he sat apart. 

“He looks like one of the fallen angels,’’ she 
exclaimed one day to Victor. “ He is almost 
beautiful with his regular features, and with the 
unusual pallor that makes him look like a statue, 
but there is something in his face that makes me 
shudder. When he sits silently fixing those black 
eyes on one, it makes one believe that he is capa- 
ble of throwing some power of enchantment. If 
I had any faith in the evil eye, I should say that 
he possessed it. Surely, Victor, he must be one of 
those natures who have the capacity of great good 
or of great wickedness. If they do not soar they 
are apt to grovel. How is it that you and he are 
such friends? You are so open hearted and sun- 
ny tempered ; he is so cold, and reserved, and cyn- 
ical. There is a mystery about him that I 


i 82 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


cannot fathom; and I cannot shake off the feel- 
ing that his companionship will bring you harm.” 

Victor looked up in surprise. “ Why, he is one 
of the cleverest fellows that I know, and a most 
devoted friend. There is a great power about him, 
too, that one cannot resist. I know that he is not 
a saint, and that he has positive vices; but, after 
all, he is cool and brave, and true to his beliefs, 
whatever they may be, and that should count for 
something. He has saved my life more than once, 
and — well, one can’t always explain such things, 
but we loved each other as boys, and we do still.” 

He lifted a vase of lilacs from the table, and, 
putting them to his face, he inhaled the delicate 
odor. He always kept the room full of flowers, 
for he said that they belonged wherever Madeleine 
was. As he replaced the jar, there was a slight- 
ly defiant note in his voice. “ Do not abuse Ana- 
tole d’Harcourt. That is one thing that I cannot 
bear even from you.” 

“ How did he save your life?*” she asked. 

“That was long ago— the first time I mean— and 
he did it as only a hero could have done. We 
were both boys, and we had been playing in a 
straw-covered pavilion in the park of the old estate 


UMDER THE CORSICAN. 


183 


in Brittany. I fell asleep there, and in some way 
the place caught on fire while I was thus uncon- 
scious. It is a long story, but to tell it shortly, I 
was missed, and then Anatole saved me. He 
rushed in through fire and smoke and dragged me 
out, but he was terribly burned himself, and for 
weeks it was thought he could not live. That 
was once. Another time while we were swim- 
ming in our own lake, I was taken with sudden 
cramps, and he dived after me as I sank, and 
brought me safely to land. That was the second 
time. And then,' mademoiselle, when I was ill 
some weeks ago, and you came and helped me to 
get well, he left me in your hands, and let you 
save me from the life we had been leading to- 
gether. That was the third time. ” 

He looked up with a quick glance of fervid 
feeling. 

She smiled. “ You saved yourself. But tell 
me some more.” 

“ Antoinette always said — Antoinette is my sis- 
ter, you know — Antoinette always said that Ana- 
tole was the strongest, and bravest, and hand- 
somest lad she knew. Poor little Antoinette! I 
think she loved him, but we were only children 


184 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


then. When my father died and I became her 
protector, I promised her to Anatole ; but now she 
and my mother are far away, and there was no 
money, and he did not press me, and I gradually 
forgot. I suppose they have too, and that some 
day she will be wedded to a sourkraut-eating 
German.” His voice grew husky. “I wish that 
you might see her. She is very lovely. Mademoi- 
selle Bertrand. She ought to know you and your 
sister Lili.” 

“ Hardly,” answered Madeleine, and she looked 
up with her sad, protesting smile. “ Your mother 
would not care for that. We are only of the botir- 
geoisie, you know.” 

Then he became indignant until she soothed him. 

With returning strength he grew animate and 
full of plans. Life was filled to overflowing with 
possibilities. There was nothing that he would 
not dare or do; and Madeleine gloried with him 
at the thought of the future, and neither dreamed 
of failure. 

“Only be true to yourself, Victor,” she said. 
She had gradually dropped into the habit of call- 
ing him so, on the score of his greatly inferior 
age. Alack, those two paltry years! 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


185 


“ When you follow out your own best instincts, 
you usually do what is right; but remember that 
the camp has many pitfalls, and that you have had 
tumbles enough already. Be the man that you 
know you can be.” 

“Will you show me howi” he asked. 

As Victor grew stronger he improved in looks 
as well as in spirits. Early hours and a regular 
life brought the color into his face again. His 
flesh grew firm, his eyes bright. The substantial 
meals and the old wine served at Isidore Ber- 
trand’s table, where he dined constantly, did their 
part of the work. But what really put the most 
new vigor into his veins was his emancipation 
from his previous ways. The healthy atmosphere 
in which he now passed most of his time reinvigo- 
rated him, and his mental attitude was helped 
while he improved in physical condition. 

With this new joy of existence came an increas- 
ing energy. He became positively intoxicated 
with life, and he felt equal to any demands made 
upon him. Everything pleased him that spring. 
The streets had never seemed so amusing, the 
flower-markets so gay. The cafes and the restau- 
rants appeared to be unusually full of life, and 


i86 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


were in consequence most entertaining. He 
longed for music, and he coaxed Bertrand and his 
sister to the opera ; and he felt a personal pride 
in the woman who leaned on his arm, when he 
noticed that the people turned to look after the 
gleam of her wonderful hair; and he imagined 
that they asked each other who she was. He took 
a deep interest in her appearance and was fas- 
tidious as to what she wore, even permitting him- 
self to make suggestions; and Madeleine humored 
him in his fancy, and caught herself in private 
studying what became her most. 

The troublesome lawsuit was won at last, 
thanks to Bertrand’s skill, and Victor found him- 
self in possession of moderate means. Then books 
and other trifles found their way to his lady con- 
stantly. Though they were only small affairs, 
each was chosen with a thoughtful care that she 
recognized; and, though she scolded him for his 
extravagance, she was glad. 

And so the days flowed on, and each of the two 
looked deep into the other’s eyes; and Madeleine 
laid a moral hand on his shoulder, and, adopting 
the manner of an elder sister, she led him to 
think high thoughts and to lead a rational life as 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


187 


he slowly began to extricate himself from his va- 
rious difficulties. She was always ready with 
s)^mpathy and counsel ; and she came to his aid 
just as she helped Gaspard and Rene out of their 
school scrapes. 

And then one day Lili came home, and with her 
there blew in a whole atmosphere of youth and 
early summer and of hope. She was extremely 
blithe and pleasure-loving, and, we dare to think, 
a little selfish, though perhaps this was partly 
Madeleine’s fault for having done so much for her. 
At any rate, the elder sister was inordinately 
proud of the younger one, who was a promising 
student of that lovel)^ artist Mme. Vigee-Le 
Brun, whom she worshipped. She went each day 
to paint beside her, and being one of the petted 
children of fortune, she was not only coaxed and 
praised, but was often invited also to the enter- 
tainments of the admired artist, who gathered in 
her sa/on much of the bon ton of Paris. 

But Victor was not to be turned from his alle- 
giance to her sister, and Lili perceiving this tossed 
her pretty head. 

“What do you see in that little officer, Made- 
leine?” she asked. “ He is like a boy with his pink 


i88 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


cheeks and his big hearty laugh. Now, for my 
part, I prefer his friend. Monsieur le Marquis 
d’Harcourt.” 

She rolled the title luxuriously over her 
tongue, for Lili did not hold to the republican 
ideas in which she had been bred, and she 
was much impressed with the distinction given 
by a high-sounding name. “ The Marquis is 
a splendid-looking man,” she continued. “He 
is dark and so distinguished in his bearing 
that any one would notice him — and I adore 
black eyes. He has such beautiful manners, 
too. He is the one for me. You let young 
d’Olonet follow you about like a pet dog, and 
you have hardly a word for the other, though he 
never takes his eyes off you. You can have 
either by lifting your little finger, but you do not 
seem to care.” 

“ Hush, child ; do not talk foolishness. I care 
nothing for titles, though M. d’Olonet has a very 
good one of his own, quite as old and even more 
honorable than that of his friend. But such dis- 
tinctions as theirs belong to the past now. He 
has been very ill, and it was only kind to be pa- 
tient with him and to help him get well. His 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


189 


mother and sister are far away, and I have but 
endeavored to fill their place a little.” 

“You need not fire up about the title, Made- 
leine. Such things are coming back with the 
new court. Henri Joujol, the hair-dresser, told 
me the other night, when he came to curl my 
hair for the soirde at Mme. Le Brun’s, that of all 
the gentlemen he knew, M. d’Harcourt had the 
finest style. He said that he positively longed to 
wait on him himself, but he understood that he 
employed his own valet.” 

“That must be Amand Gourtain, who keeps a 
tavern in the Rue des Trois Canettes. Victor has 
told me about him. He was in the service of the 
old Marquis, and M. d’Harcourt has a room in his 
house now. There are but few members of the 
out-at-elbow aristocracy who can afford to keep a 
body-servant. ” 

- “No matter,” answered the little sister hotly. 
“One is a boy; the other is a man of the world. 

I care nothing for your young adorer, but I will 
paint his portrait for you, Madeleine, all the same. 
Shall I ? We will pose him on his knees before 
you, holding your fan and looking up at you — so.” 

She broke out in a merry laugh as she struck 


190 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


an attitude that would have amused her sister if 
it had not pained her instead. The truth was that 
the girl’s thoughtless words had touched her too 
nearly, and she felt the hot blood mounting to her 
face; but she held her peace and said nothing. 

Lili was by no means shy. She was even a 
little pert, but she was really a good child and 
loved her sister devotedly, though she did tease 
her at times. After all they were not as much 
together as might have been supposed. Three 
mornings in the week Therese escorted the girl to 
Mme. Le Brun’s studio, and she did not fetch her 
back until night, and on the days that she re- 
mained at home she was much occupied with her 
work — so after her return from Lyons there were 
almost as many hours as before when her sister 
and Victor sat together alone and undisturbed. 

Sometimes they had the tea-tray carried out into 
the conservatory, and, sitting beside the pretty 
table, the intimacy grew as they helped each other 
over the slight repast. It was usually of him that 
they talked, though she might have told him much 
about herself; but somehow, her portion in life 
had been defined long ago for she had alwa5^s 
been the one to listen, and, in her generous sym- 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


191 


pathy for others, she had learned years before to 
forget herself. 

Thus the first half of the month glided away so 
swiftly that they hardly realized the flight of time. 
The 1 8th of May brought great news. Bertrand 
came in excitedly to tell them that Cambaceres 
accompanied by the senators and escorted by a 
large body of troops, had gone to St. Cloud, 
where he had made a speech, and for the first 
time addressed Bonaparte as “Your Majesty.” 
Mme. Bonaparte had also been visited in her 
apartment and proclaimed Empress. 

The great stroke was thus accomplished, and 
the people, dazzled by the glitter of pomp and 
glory and carried away by the wonderful personal 
magnetism of the man, shouted with joy. What 
Anatole had predicted really did take place; and 
as the new court sprang into life, it was largely 
peopled by aspiring commoners that Napoleon 
delighted to honor; and they and the members of 
the old aristocracy stood side by side. M. de 
Talleyrand, who was promptly appointed Grand 
Chamberlain, was consulted about everything. 
A fever of etiquette seized on all the inhabitants 
gf the imperial household, and the ponderous 


192 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


regulations of Louis XIV. were consulted, Mme. 
Bonaparte even sent for Mme. Campan, who had 
been in close attendance upon the unfortunate 
Marie Antoinette, in order that she might impart 
her experience. Josephine’s head was possibly a 
little turned when she counted among her suite 
many of high degree, and the victory she had won 
by attaching Mme. de la Rochefoucauld to her 
person as Lady of Honor was little short of in- 
toxicating. Mme, de la Fayette was Lady of the 
Bedchamber. 

The Montmorencys, the Montesquieus, and 
others returned, tempted by the promise that 
from the day they cast in their lot with Bona- 
parte, they should resume their former importance, 
and thus a regular court was gradually formed. 
Napoleon’s seat was for the time firm upon the 
throne that had been but lately vacated by the na- 
tion’s anointed king; and after the coronation 
finally set its seal upon the mightiest potentate in 
Europe, he uttered the ominous words: “I found 
the crown of France upon the ground, and I took 
it up on the point of my sword.” 

We have looked on, however, somewhat in ad- 
vance. When Bertrand rushed in on that i8th 


UNDER THE CORSICAN 


193 


day of May, 1804, with the news that he had heard, 
he was flushed with the same exultation and ex- 
citement that was to run like an electric current 
through the country. His idol had been pro- 
claimed; and when he shouted for the first time in 
his immense satisfaction, “ Vive V Eivperetir !” both 
Madeleine and Victor rose to their feet and echoed 
the words. 

That night Napoleon gave a dinner to the offi- 
cers of his household, and it was asserted after- 
ward that he never once through force of habit 
addressed any of the company as “ Citizen ” ; but 
returned for the first time to the old word “ Mon- 
sieur,” which indeed had long been restored to 
society, but which he had never used. The for- 
mer term was thus definitely relegated to the past. 

13 


CHAPTER X. 


That evening when Anatole approached the 
Sapin Vert, its lights shone hospitably through the 
small leaded panes, and after he had passed be- 
neath the battered old sign, he entered the wine- 
shop and paused to lean with his elbow upon the 
zinc-covered counter in the tap-room, while he 
entered into conversation with his host. 

Amand Gourtain always kept up the fiction that 
Anatole’s presence in the hostelry was not only 
an honor, but of advantage to the business as well, 
for it gave it a certain distinction. It was his 
way of showing his respect for a member of the 
distinguished family fallen into adversity; and 
he treated the son of his old master with the ut- 
most respect and consideration. He now pressed 
him to accept a glass of wine that he handed across 
the stationary shelf behind which he stood him- 
self, and which was loaded with a miscellaneous 
collection of bottles and drinking glasses. 

The new comer shook his head. “ No, Amand, 

not to-night, but I thank you all the same. How 
194 


UNDER rilE CORSICAN. 


195 


has the world gone with you to-day; and have you 
heard of what they are talking in the city? What 
are we coming to, old friend?” 

The corner of his lip drew down in an expres- 
sion of utter contempt, which the other was quick 
to notice but careful not to comment on. He 
contented himself with running his fingers 
through his short and coarse black hair that stood 
up on his head like the uncompromising bristles 
of a scrubbing brush. His small eyes twinkled 
mischievously as he answered : 

“Monsieur has heard the great news then! 
Business, too, has been good to-day. It goes. All 
is well. But there is also much for patriots to 
think of just now. When the citizens come in 
here and wish to drink to the new state of things, 
one must certainly trinquer with them. It 
comes about, therefore, that though I have taken 
in money with one hand, I have poured it out 
with the other.” 

“The people have gone mad, Amand,” said 
d’Harcourt, as he shifted his weight from his right 
leg to the left, and he leaned further over the 
board that separated him from the inn-keeper. 
He opened his snuff-box and took a pinch before 


196 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


he offered its contents with an air of condescen- 
sion to his companion. 

Gourtain took what was presented and then 
shook the remaining dust lightly from his fingers. 
He endeavored to compose his jovial red face into 
lines of concern, and he busied himself with the 
implements of his calling. 

“The people have gone mad,” repeated his 
guest sarcastically. “ They have upset one dy- 
nasty, but only to found another. We shall see 
what we shall see! ” 

“And yet, monsieur,” said Amand deferentially, 
as he wiped out the glass he held, “ the First Con- 
sul refused the honor several times. He is Em- 
peror now because the position has been forced 
upon him. Enfi^i ! We shall see, as monsieur 
says. I hear that we shall have a real court 
again. Paris will be gay!” 

The other did not answer, but he looked fixedly 
at his father’s old servant, who, rendered uneasy 
under the searching glance, balanced himself 
squarely upon sturdy legs set rather far apart, 
and encased in gray, coarsely ribbed stockings. 
He was in reality jubilant, but it was not on his 
programme to appear rude. 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


197 


“ Monsieur will see for himself what this new 
court will be like,” he answered in a conciliatory 
tone, as he held the glass up to the light to see if a 
speck of dust remained. “ They tell me that 
many of the old nobles will return to be there; 
and if the real aristocrats show the way, Paris 
may once more see that fine manners and good 
society become her better than misrule and dis- 
order,” 

“ I care not to associate with such mongrel 
nobles as the new creations will be,” said the 
gentleman scornfully. “ Besides, Amand, I have 
no clothes. Do I look like a courtier?” 

He laughed unpleasantly, and the ex-valet 
looked up with real concern on his face. 

“ I have done what I could with monsieur’s ward- 
robe. Monsieur should wed,” he added bluntly. 
“ If the lady brings a fortune it will be well ; and 
the name of d’Harcourt would be a fair exchange 
for much money.” 

Anatole made a deprecating gesture. “ I could 
not bring myself to attend such a court, Amand — 
and I shall not buy my way to anything either.” 

“But,” continued the other, “ ’tis often done. 
Among the bourgeoisie, perhaps,” he added tenta- 


198 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


lively, “there are truly lovely ladies whose fathers 
have well-lined pockets. With such a one a fine 
would be forthcoming.’’ 

D’Harcourt’s face grew hard as he answered: 
“ You do not know what you are saying. I will 
not debase myself.” He pursed his lips thought- 
fully. “Ladies should be wooed,” he said, “with 
flowers and sweets, as well as with soft glances and 
with many a h7/e/ doux. Ladies love gifts, but I 
have nothing to offer. But stay,” he added, “I 
have one beautiful thing in my possession that 
one might be proud to wear. It is a web of old 
Italian lace, fine as gossamer, and rich enough for 
a queen’s toilette. I won it the other night from 
M. de Montfort. It was an heirloom in his family, 
but he had no money left when we dealt the cards 
for the last time, so he put that up. ' Poor fellow, 
I was sorry for him, but what will you? It was 
his luck. When he handed it over there were 
tears in his eyes, for it had been his mother’s.” 

“ Is monsieur acquainted with no one that it will 
become?” 

“ Yes, Amand.” He spoke fiercely as he leaned 
over the counter, and his face took on an expres- 
sion that it was not good to see. 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


190 


“ There is a lovely lady who lives beyond the 
Seine. She should be dressed only like a queen. 
Laces, satins, velvets, are what she should 
always wear. The whiteness of her skin rivals 
alabaster. Her hair is like red gold. She is not 
human — she is divine. She is a goddess, Amand, 
for us poor mortals to worship. The lace would 
become her.” 

The inn-keeper stared, and in his embarrass- 
ment, he nervously picked up the corner of his 
apron and tucked the end within the confining 
string at his waist. 

“ Monsieur jests.” 

“Jests? Oh, no, I am in earnest.” D’Harcourt 
laughed, but there was nothing mirthful in the 
sound. He put out his hand and took the glass of 
wine that the other still held. “ I am weary,” he 
remarked, “ and I will drink after all. Good luck 
to you, Amand. Touch!” 

He stood upright and reached out toward his 
host. His air of condescension was infinite, but 
the old retainer did not take offence at that, and 
hastened to fill his own glass; but before he raised 
it to his lips, he placed its rim against the one in 
Anatole’s hand. 


200 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


“To the lady’s health,’’ he ventured to say sig- 
nificantly. 

But d’Harcourt looked at him coldly, and pushed 
the wine away so that it splashed like drops of 
ruby blood upon the zinc. He dashed his own 
glass to the ground where it shivered in pieces, 
and the liquid spilled and mingled with the saw- 
dust on the floor. 

“ Her health may not be drunk in a cabaret," he 
said with an iciness of tone that chilled the very 
marrow in Amand Gourtain’s bones. “ It would 
be a presumption.’’ 

He turned on his heel and walked to the open 
door, and he lifted his hat in order that the even- 
ing air might cool his heated forehead. Even 
there, in the narrow street, he smelled a sugges- 
tion of summer, a fragrance of fresh earth that 
was exhaled from beyond the confining walls of 
masonry that enclosed within many a courtyard 
small oases of delight, and that stood guard 
over gardens of forgotten sweetness in the rear of 
unpromising-looking houses. An odor of new 
verdure came to him from beyond the barriers, 
and also the smell of bulbous plants. A green 
vine hung over a neighboring wall, and a crown 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


201 


of early foliage adorned the branches of the tree 
that rose above it. The scent of blossoms reached 
him from the stand by an open window. The in- 
describable softness of the winning, wooing sum- 
mer, coming to heal winter’s wounds, lay on the 
atmosphere that borrowed its fragrance from the 
hidden gardens. Anatole’s face worked painfully, 
but no one saw it ; and when he re-entered the 
room, his features were as set and cold as though 
cast in steel. 

Gourtain looked at him dubiously, and in his 
perplexity scratched his own ear. He had evi- 
dently offended the young man, and he wished to 
conciliate him. He therefore grasped at what 
seemed to his material mind as the best solution 
of the difficulty, and in the hope of turning Ana- 
tole’s attention to something else, he asked re- 
spectfully with what he wished to be served for 
supper. D’Harcourt’s moods disturbed him, but 
his face cleared and he looked relieved when the 
former gave his order. A moment later, the cas- 
seroles rattled in the kitchen, and through the 
open door one could see the glow of the fire. And 
Anatole sat at the bare deal table in the outer room, 
and supporting his chin in his hand, he waited. 


202 


UNDER THE CORSICA N. 


Quite unknown to the two men, Gabrielle had 
lost no word of the conversation, and at the first 
mention of the beautiful lace she had held her 
breath. Her constant service on her father’s cus- 
tomers had taught her to be precocious, and by 
keeping both eyes and ears open she had learned 
some things that less sophisticated maidens never 
dream of. This intercourse with men had made 
her forward, and she had followed Anatole about 
whenever he came to her home, and she had 
been unwilling for any one to serve him but her- 
self. In the free-and-easy atmosphere of the 
tavern he had allowed himself to take liberties 
with her that would have been impossible with 
a woman of his own class, and though he had 
treated her at first as a child, he had soon 
begun to jest with her for his own diversion, 
and did not give a thought to what might be 
the ultimate result of his action. That a gentle- 
man should have a word for a pretty barmaid 
was nothing unusual, and Anatole considered 
that he had done no wrong. She had been busy 
clearing off the tables while he and her father 
had talked that night, and though she had 
listened, she had never paused in her work, until 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


203 


at the first mention of the lady, her heart had 
stood still. 

“Of course,” she argued, “this beautiful friend 
can be no other than the one he met that day 
near the Tour St. Jacques.” Gabrielle remem- 
bered that her wonderful hair had looked like a 
glory; and that she had had a most noble carriage. 
It had all become perfectly clear to the little bar- 
maid’s mind. She thought of how she had seen 
them go on their way together, and she knew that 
she could readily find the house again that she had 
seen them enter. As she wiped off the table, her 
throat was choking and unshed tears burned hotly 
in her eyes, but neither Anatole nor her father took 
the least notice of her, and as she continued her 
work she strained her ears to catch each word they 
were saying. When she saw the shattered glass 
lying on the floor her worst fears were confirmed, 
and she hastened out of the room quite as much to 
hide her face as in answer to her mother’s call 
from the kitchen. Gourtain was an admirable 
cook himself, but on this occasion he remained to 
entertain his high-born customer. 

It was strange that Gabrielle had never seen 
Victor, and that she also knew nothing of his ill- 


204 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


ness. If she had been aware of d’Harcourt’s 
anxiety for his friend she might not have been so 
carried away by the tide of her own imagination. 
D’Olonet had been so much occupied elsewhere 
that he had rarely come to the inn, and when he 
had done so at long intervals, he had made no 
impression upon her. She continued, therefore, 
to harbor her conclusion that Anatole’s preoccu- 
pation resulted from his attentions to a certain 
lady to whom he paid incessant court; and fol- 
lowing out this train of thought, she had become 
convinced that she had discovered the object of 
his admiration when she had seen Madeleine. 
As she had seen them enter Victor’s lodging to- 
gether, she had been equally certain that the 
house was the lady’s home. She had thus nursed 
this idea until it had grown into a conviction, and 
Anatole’s devotion to his friend during his illness 
had, of course, tended to strengthen this impres- 
sion. So she continued to torment herself about 
something that was entirely evolved out of the 
unrestrained fancies of her own undisciplined 
thoughts. Poor Gabrielle was by no means the 
first woman who has thus shed the tears of bitter- 
ness for something unreal. It had not occurred to 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


205 


her to more conclusively prove the truth of her 
conjectures. She had jumped to a conclusion and 
obstinately refused to entertain any other idea. 
When the glass fell to the floor shattered, she had 
started and she had held on to the table for sup- 
port. As she stood there panting, her breath rose 
and fell with her quick respiration, and she was 
angry with the unreasoning temper of a limited 
intelligence. 

“Monsieur has spilled the wine,” said Amand 
calmly. “ It is a pity, for it came of good 
vintage. As for the lady, I apologize. The 
health of such a one should not be drunk in a 
cabaret. Monsieur is right. ” 

He stooped below the counter and drew a glass 
again from another and a smaller cask than the 
last. He also filled a horn drinking-cup for him- 
self. With a slight bow, and in a conciliatory 
tone, he continued: “Wine is good, for it warms 
the heart of man. Will monsieur condescend to 
drink with me, after all? This time it shall be to 
his own health and prosperity.” 

He half closed his lids as he glanced keenly 
toward his guest with a look full of cunning. 

Anatole’s eyes had flashed, but the fire died out 


2o6 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


as he accepted the proffered glass and said with 
dignity, and with a touch of real feeling in his 
voice: “You are a good fellow after all, Amand,” 

A few seconds later the inn-keeper had proposed 
to serve him with supper, and, as we have seen, 
Anatole waited while Gabrielle and her mother 
were busied in the kitchen. As the former broke 
the eggs and cut slices from the ring of sour, dark 
bread, and hunted up the white cheeses that 
d’Harcourt loved,- the two men continued their 
conversation in tones of studied politeness, but as 
the talk turned upon politics the gentleman 
spoke with a thinly veiled sarcasm, and the other 
in accents that barely concealed his jubilation. 
They were mentally fencing with each other. 

When the young girl returned to the outer 
room, she hung about, pretending to be busy, but 
as she bustled around, the remembrance of the 
old lace remained to haunt her thoughts. “ It 
must be very lovely,” she reflected, and she could 
not deny to her own unwilling consciousness that 
the thing would be a most fitting adornment for 
the striking-looking woman that she had seen. 
“Ah, mon Dieu! It must be a delightful thing to 
be a great lady, ’’she muttered beneath her breath. 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


207 


“ To be able to wear finery like that must be a 
joy. ■ Why is fate so unjust that it gives to one 
everything, and from another it even wrests 
away a hope that is like the wine of life in her 
veins? ” She wrinkled up her pretty forehead, 
and she tapped impatiently on the floor with her 
foot. M. d’Harcourt had indeed given her 
buckles, and buttons, and ribbons, but never any- 
thing of more value; and though he had been in- 
variably kind, he had not once looked at her as 
she had seen him glance at the queenly woman 
with the chestnut locks. Of course, it was quite 
clear that a poor girl had no chance beside such a 
one as that — but Gabrielle was pretty too, and in 
these days birth did not count for as much as it 
had done in the past. And she could love, also! 
Ah, Dieti ! how her heart was beating now ! It was 
like the throbbing in a poor little hare’s breast 
who had been nearly run to its death. And she 
could be true too, though this beating was hidden 
beneath a common dress instead of under the 
sumptuous clothes worn by rich people. She could 
die for him if it came to that, she thought, as she 
stood out of sight in the shadow of the dark room ; 
and at any rate she could wait for him, and slave 


2o8 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


for him all her life — and yet he did not care. 
Here she was, longing for a word or a nod, and he 
did not see her. When she placed his omelette 
on the table, he never asked if it had been she 
who had prepared it; and yet one remark of her 
father’s in regard to the other, though well 
meant, had caused Anatole to fly out in a fury. 
And then there was the lace too. As her thoughts 
returned to it she began to wish to see the pre- 
cious thing, and as the desire grew, she slipped 
out of the room. Surely it would be no harm to 
run upstairs and open the upper drawer of his bu- 
reau, and just to take one little peep at the treas- 
ure if it lay there among his own best things. It 
could be done so quickly, and no one would ever 
know. She would not take it out, she would not 
even touch it. If the lady was to wear the lace, 
she might at least examine its web. She had 
never seen any thing of the kind close at hand, 
and this was clearly an opportunity not to be lost. 
But M. d’Harcourt would be terribly angry! 

For a moment her heart failed her, and she 
turned to look back through the open door. He 
was still deep in conversation with her father, and 
some of their words reached her. They were 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


209 


talking of the recent plots against the conqueror’s 
life, and Amand was expressing his opinion that 
they would soon be entirely crushed out ; and then 
both, even though Anatole hated Bonaparte, ex- 
claimed in admiration at the encouragement that 
Napoleon was constantly giving to the arts and 
sciences, and to the revival of business prosperity. 
The Royalist spoke of him as “ that man,” but he 
did not rail at him. 

She continued to look. D’Harcourt sat at the 
common table, and her father stood at his side 
with a napkin over his arm, serving his guest. 
He had just placed a new flask of wine before 
him, and Gabrielle felt sure that both would be 
occupied for some minutes to come. Without 
giving herself time for longer reflection, she 
turned and hastened up the stairs as though she 
were pursued. She knew that she was doing 
wrong. The very sound of her own feet on the 
bare steps frightened her, and a lump kept rising 
in her throat as if it would choke her. After all, 
Anatole had been very good to her. Suppose he 
should find her in his room and touching his prop- 
erty! He would rebuke her, and she knew that 
he might become furious, Did she dare to risk 

14 


2 10 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


his anger?- She stopped when her hand lay on 
the latch, but her hesitation only lasted a moment, 
for a flood of jealousy came and swept away all 
other feelings — and throwing discretion to the 
winds, she entered his room. 

It was chill up there in that attic chamber. In 
spite of the warm spring weather outside, there 
was an atmosphere of dampness and of want of 
ventilation there, as though the small window had 
been inadequate to admit enough of the sunshine 
that had been pouring all day upon the moss- 
grown roof; and the apartment retained in conse- 
quence, a certain stuffiness. No one had remem- 
bered to throw back the panes, and there were 
leaks under the leads that transmitted moisture 
for a long time. She reproached herself for not 
having aired the room. Then she struck a light, 
and when the candle cast its feeble rays, she be- 
gan to think that she would have done better had 
she waited for the sunlight of another day, but 
she had gone too far to retreat now, and in her 
haste her hand trembled. She placed the light on 
the table and opened the drawer. 

There lay the lace just as she had hoped ; a beau- 
tiful web of rare worth, somewhatyellow with age, 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


21 1 


but valued at many times its own weight in gold. 
Even to her inexperienced eyes it seemed so lovely 
a thing as to be beyond all price, and she could 
only draw a long breath of admiration and clasp 
her hands in wonder. Then she touched it, and 
when her fingers had once felt the treasure, there 
folloAved the desire to see it unfolded; and her 
confidence returning as she remained undisturbed, 
she cautiousl)' lifted the coveted possession from 
its resting-place and shook it open, and then, so 
easy are the progressing degrees of wrongdoing 
when once begun, she threw it scarf-like across 
her own shoulders, remaining entirely unconscious 
of the incongruous effect it produced in connec- 
tion with her own dress of coarse texture and her 
face, which though pretty, was of a vulgar type. 
Rendered bolder by action, she lit a second candle, 
and climbing on a chair she turned herself about 
in order to get a view of her back and shoulders 
as they were reflected in the mirror that hung 
above Anatole’s chest of drawers. She drew the 
soft folds through her hands, she turned to the 
right and to the left, she even bowed and courte- 
sied to herself in the glass. She smiled, and 
twisted her head from side to side; and as the 


2T2 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


minutes passed, she became completely absorbed 
in the gratification of her consuming vanity. 

'' Dieu de del!” she murmured as she picked 
up the end of the costly fabric and pressed it 
against her cheek, “ what joy to wear a thing like 
this! And over a gown of satin the effect would 
be finer still. It becomes me very well,” she 
added complacently, “ but I would like to have a 
few' trinkets also, some shining paste buckles for 
instance, instead of the silver ones that monsieur 
gave me, if real diamonds cost too much. The 
imitation ones shine just as brightly, and I w'ould 
rather have several clasps set with them than to 
possess only one pair made of the true stones — 
and then, let me see. Yes, I would like a jewelled 
comb, and some scented gloves to match the satin 
dress, and — and — ” but here her imagination 
failed her. 

As she turned herself about, her skirt caught 
on the sharp corner of the bureau and tore in a 
jagged rent. She became at once provoked, for 
she well knew' that its reparation would prove to 
be a long and tedious task, and as she ruefully ex- 
amined the ragged edges a revulsion of feeling 
came over her. Fickle as a child crying for every 


UNDER THE CORSICA N. 


213 


toy it sees, the joy of handling the lace lost its 
value in the presence of the present annoyance. 

“I can have nothing at all,” she cried aloud; 
“ but I must just sit still and sew on this ugly thing, 
and the taking of little stitches makes my eyes 
burn and my back ache. Ladies have no such 
work to do, and they can amuse themselves and 
wear lovely things; and when their finery needs 
to be mended, some poor girl like me has to do it. 
A/i, qt4e la vie est dure! Yes, life is also very un- 
just,” she added petulantly. 

She snatched the lace from off her shoulders and 
she grasped it in both her hands. “ It is not so 
beautiful after all,” she said pouting; “and if I 
may not have it, some one else might just as well 
wear the yellow old thing.” She held it out at 
arm’s length and shook it as she smiled disdain- 
fully — and then like a flash of light a vision 
floated before her eyes, and she saw in remem- 
brance the lady of the chestnut locks that were 
glorified by golden glints. She lost no line of her 
figure, she even noticed the delicious turn of her 
neck, and observed the small pink ear that peeped 
from beneath the mass of shining hair. She saw 
again the downcast eyes with the dark lines of 


214 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


brows and lashes, the pale cheeks that had softened 
into tenderest rose when Anatolehad accosted her. 
How should Gabrielle have known that the blush 
had come from embarrassment not untinged with 
annoyance? She even remembered that Made- 
leine’s delicate nostril had quivered, and that her 
hand had perceptibly tightened as she had held 
up her skirt from the muddy street; and above 
all, the inn-keeper’s daughter could never forget 
that the lady had smiled when Anatole d’Harcourt 
had approached. 

She was filled with an unreasoning jealousy. 
“ And this is the one who has stolen him from 
me,” she exclaimed, “ and she must now also wear 
the lace!” Gabrielle’s face was burning and her 
eyes were 'flashing. In one second of anger that 
stopped her ears so that she heard no sound of 
coming footsteps, and that blinded her eyes so 
that she did not see the opening door, she twisted 
the costly fabric that she held, about her hands, 
and prepared in a burst of uncontrolled passion to 
rend it asunder. At the same instant a hand was 
laid firmly on her arm, and a voice from behind 
her that sounded both sad and gentle, asked 
quietly : 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


215 


“What would you do, Gabrielle? That lace is 
mine.” 

It was Anatole. 

Dismay, sorrow, fear, following each other in 
quick succession, drove anger away; and trem- 
bling like a leaf she fell at his feet and clasped 
her hands about his knees. 

“ Forgive me, monsieur. De grace ! I beg it 
of you. It was a wicked dream that made me do 
it. I was mad, folk. I knew not what I was 
about to do. Tell me that you will pardon me ; 
and do not push your little Gabrielle away.” 

She was sobbing hysterically, and like a child 
in terror ; and when she lifted her face, bathed in 
tears, the austere man, in spite of himself, was 
touched. 

“ Why should you do this thing?” he asked, 
coldly, but still calmly. 

His tone pierced her heart more than words of 
harshest scolding could have done, and her sobs 
came in little gasps as she answered: “Because, 
monsieur, you have been good to me and have 
made me presents, and I love you so that I could 
not bear to have you give this lace to any one else, 
—not even back to M. de Montfort’s mother,” she 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


216 


added quickl)' with an inspiration of cunning. 
Anatole must not know at any cost that she was 
jealous of the younger woman. 

“ But wherefore not?” he asked quietly, divining 
perfectly her little stratagem. “ She is a lady.” 

He placed a slight emphasis upon the last word. 

“ Does monsieur love any one else?” she said. 

“ Have you a right to ask, Gabrielle? Listen to 
me, child.” He took the lace from her hands and 
placed it on the table; and then he lifted her from 
the floor, and sitting down on the arm of the chair, 
he drew her toward him and placed his hand on 
hers. “ Listen, Gabrielle,” he continued, “ I have 
been kind to you always, and yet you try to do me 
this harm. That hurts me, child, but I forgive 
you.” 

She opened her eyes very wide, and the tears 
dried of themselves when she felt his hand close 
over hers. “You have always been my little pet 
and you are still,” he said; “and I will give you 
other things to wear that are much prettier than 
this old lace, things that have color and shine; but 
you must promise me that you will never, never 
again touch what does not belong to you. Do you 
not know that I could call in a sergeant-de-ville to 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


217 


arrest you, and to carry you away?” He frowned, 
and she trembled as she clung to him ; but he 
clasped her closely and added : “ But I will not 
do it, little one. I love you too much ; and I 
know that you only did a foolish thing with- 
out realizing how wrong it was. I am certain 
that you are already sorry for it. Is this not 
so?” 

“ If monsieur will only pardon me and not send 
me away, I will serve him faithfully all my life. 
It is all I ask, and he can give the lace to whom 
he likes.” 

” And to make up for what you were about to 
do,” he continued, “you will to-morrow carr}' a 
message from me to M. de Montfort, will you not? 
See how I trust you.” 

She nodded. 

“ We will send back the lace, child. He paid 
it to me as a debt of honor, but he can give me its 
equivalent in something else. This I cannot 
touch. I will send him a letter that will explain 
what I wish. And I shall fold it within the lace 
to-night, and seal up the package, and direct it to 
him. In the morning you shall deliver it, and 
you will give it into his own hands.” 


2i8 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


“Yes, monsieur.” 

“ I shall be away to-morrow,” he went on to say 
in a deep, grave voice that yet sounded wonder- 
fully gentle. “ It is possible that you may hear 
nothing of me for several days. Important busi- 
ness is taking me to St. Cloud. An opportunity 
has offered to arrange a little affair of mine, and 
I wish to settle with de Montfort before I go. Can 
I depend upon you, Gabrielle? See how gener- 
ous I am. I not only forgive you, but I trust you 
again.” 

“Yes, monsieur,” she said, but she thought to 
herself triumphantly, “ the lady will not receive 
the lace after all. I mean the lady with the 
beautiful hair who is the only one I care 
about.” 

“And Gabrielle," he added, “ I want you to un- 
derstand that this is a matter of great importance. 
You must swear to me that you will not breathe a 
word to a living soul of what has passed between 
us this night.” He touched his ring, Antoinette’s 
ring, that she wore. “Remember that we are 
bound together by this bit of gold that I placed 
upon your finger myself one night not so very 
long ago. Look up at me.” 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


219 


She obeyed him, and he looked down into her 
eyes with a penetrating gaze that fascinated while 
it made her shiver. “ Do not forget,” he repeated 
solemnly, “ that this is just between you and me. 
It is our secret alone.” 

She was awed in spite of herself, for she felt that 
there was here something more than she could 
understand. He drew her still closer to him and 
kissed her, and the touch of his lips sealed her to 
his service forever. He had judged her aright. 
He knew with whom he had to deal. For a sec- 
ond or two they stood thus clasped together; then 
he walked across the room and took the crucifix 
from off the wall. 

“Kneel down,” he commanded in a voice that 
she dared not disobey; and she sank to her knees 
at once beside him, for he too had adopted the at- 
titude of prayer. He devoutly kissed the ivory 
image and handed it to her and she did the 
same, led on ’ by his invincible will that she 
feared to question. He laid her hand upon the 
cross, and placed his own larger one over hers 
to keep it in place, and said, “ Now, Gabrielle, 
repeat after me what I am about to say;” and 
she slowly echoed his words when he said them. 


220 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


though as she did so, her blood turned cold with 
horror. 

“ I swear by the Holy Mother of God, and by 
this symbol of our faith, that I will do as I have 
promised ; and if I fail to keep my word to M. 
d’Harcourt through any fault of my own, may the 
Almighty strike me dead. Amen.” 

A death-like silence followed. She was trem- 
bling in every limb, but Anatole’s features were 
as though cut in stone. 

Presently he arose and lifting her to her feet, 
he led her to the window. He flung it wide open 
and pointed out to the stars and to the spire of 
Notre Dame. 

“ Look, my child, the heavenly lights are the 
sign of hope. They are shining brightly to-night 
above the Church of Our Lady. She has 
heard your oath. You are consecrated to a great 
cause.” 

The girl was very quiet now, but she laid her 
hand on his arm and turned toward him a face 
from which the childishness had fled, giving place 
to the expression of a suffering womanhood. She 
did not in the least understand the portent of what 
he wished, but she accepted his will blindly. 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


221 


“ And if I do this thing will monsieur care for 
me a little?” Her voice was soft with wistful 
pleading. 

“ I care no longer for things earthly, Gabrielle. 
The time for that is past, but if you do my bidding 
faithfully, we may meet hereafter in a better world 
than this, — or else — ” but his voice sank so low 
that she did not catch the qualifying words that 
followed. 

“ Go to bed and rest, ” he added presently. ” To- 
morrow you shall come to me for the package — 
and you will remember.” 

He gently led her to the door and held it open 
as she silently passed out. When the man found 
himself alone again, he took from out of the 
bosom of his coat a crushed and faded rose; 
and he pressed it passionately to his lips. Made- 
leine had worn it in her dress the night before. 
And still holding the withered flower in the 
clasp of his iron hand, he at last lay down to 
rest. 

That night he dreamed that an angel, clad in 
flowing robes of white, came and stood beside him, 
and her head was crowned with a glory of shining 
hair, and she sang to him softly in a voice whose 


222 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


sweetness surpassed anything he had ever heard 
before, and the words of the song were: 

“Ne laissons passer en vain 
Si soudain 

Les ans de nostre jeunesse.” 


They were the very same that he had often heard 
Madeleine sing in her pleasant home hard by the 
Tuileries gardens. 


CHAPTER XI. 


In those days there was an intense excitement 
in the air, and the birth of the new Empire was 
attended in Paris by a state of stimulation that 
pervaded all classes; and no one, not even Napo- 
leon’s adversaries, could fail to be affected by the 
prevailing bustle and stir, glitter and movement 
of the coming epoch. But while public events 
were occupying the world at large, each private 
life also was being rounded out and filled; and 
Madeleine and Victor, though deeply interested 
in the tide of current events, still looked into each 
other’s eyes day by day, and became increasingly 
absorbed in one another. She knew that he meant 
to ask her to be his wife, for though he had not 
yet said the word, each look and deed were elo- 
quent with a love that would not longer consent 
to be silenced; and her woman’s sure instinct 
warned her of this and told her to be on her guard 
if she wished to keep him from speaking. Her 
conscience smote her when this conviction first 

made itself felt, and she imagined that she ought 
223 


224 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


to discourage him. She knew that in this case, 
it would be the part of wisdom to send him away; 
but her heart kept back the words, and a depre- 
cating smile or a faint accent of protest was all the 
opposition that he met with. These weeks had 
been the spring-time of Madeleine’s life, the sweet- 
est, most unalloyed season of happiness that she 
had ever known. They had contained the very 
essence of the careless youth that had hitherto been 
denied her; and though she had waited for years 
before it came, when this tender joy at last entered 
her chastened life, she was overmastered by the 
perfect contentment that it brought. It was no 
wonder, therefore, that she hesitated to turn from 
the bliss before her. The long years of poverty 
and self-sacrifice that had robbed her of her first 
youth, already counted as nothing. 

She had had but little intercourse with men. 
The years had been full of care, and Bertrand’s 
older and graver companions had not appealed to 
her. Once or twice a match had been arranged 
or at least suggested for her; but her mind had 
not been in it and her brother had not pressed 
the suit. This love that was blooming in her 
life was the one romance of her existence, and 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


225 


it grew like a fair flower in the garden of her 
heart. 

And yet all the dictates of her reason and of her 
own lofty soul told her that the match would be 
not only inappropriate, but that Victor was already 
bound to some one else, and failing in his engage- 
ment both his own and his mother’s honor would 
suffer. It is true she argued that in the existing 
state of society questions of rank amounted to 
comparatively little, but she was at the same time 
quite conscious that a different union from one 
with herself might insure a brilliant future to the 
man she loved. She sheltered herself behind the 
safeguard of her superior age, and tried to deceive 
her own intelligence into thinking that she might 
still keep him as a brother. It is always danger- 
ous to temporize. Madeleine obstinately endeav- 
ored to blind her eyes to what was surely coming, 
and persisted in reflecting that if an actual propo- 
sal could be averted the happy days might flow 
on indefinitely, just as they were doing. Things 
were very well as they were. Why not leave them 
alone, at least until the end of Victor’s furlough, 
that already loomed up as a spectre, at no great 
distance before them? 

15 


226 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


The Bertrands owned a little country-seat not 
far from Paris, to which they expected to move 
during the early part of June. It was hidden 
away among chestnut trees of its own, and it was 
close by the shady glades of the forest of St. Ger- 
main, overlooking the same stretch of beautiful 
and fertile country that is commanded by the Pa- 
vilion Henri IV. and the magnificent terrace of 
Le Notre. It was also within pleasant walking 
distance of the estate at Versailles where Victor’s 
father had cultivated his renowned roses. The 
vicinity of the historic old hill-town, with its at- 
tractive surroundings and its salubrious air, had 
been fixed upon long before as a safe retreat for 
Madeleine and the children during the heated 
months of summer, and being near the city, Ber- 
trand was able to ride in and out frequently. 
While he was busy providing for them all, she 
had found that her days, too, were very full in that 
cozy nest, as well as in the garden, all aglow with 
flowers, that she not only loved herself but taught 
her younger brothers and sister to cultivate. 

Victor had heard much of this retired cottage, 
and it presented to his mind a most alluring pic- 
ture as he thought of its rose-covered walls over- 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


227 


shadowed by protecting trees. The same French 
thrift that had made the most of the garden also 
prevailed within doors, leaving its trace in every 
room. Careful housekeeping showed in the sim- 
ple sa/on as well as in the neat kitchen where the 
copper vessels shone only a trifle more brightly 
than the polished tile-floor. Repeated description 
had made everything familiar to Victor, from the 
sitting-room to the cool hall where the family took 
their meals. This ran directly through the house, 
at one end being the front entrance, and at the 
other a broad door-like window that opened out 
on the sunny prospect, and there Venetian blinds 
partially kept out the glare. 

As the increasing warmth enticed the Parisians 
more and more out of doors, and into the public 
gardens where they loved to watch the cheerful 
passing of the people, Victor decided that he 
would lose no time in joining his friends in the 
freedom of the real country after they had once 
established themselves there. 

He planned to surprise them as they took their 
evening meal beneath a spreading chestnut tree 
that stood like a sentinel beside the house. Mad 
eleine had told him that on fine days the table was 


228 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


often spread there. He' fancied the white napery, 
the silver, and the shining glasses. Plain but well- 
cooked dishes, and desserts and pretty cakes, fash- 
ioned by Thdrese’s skilful hands, would be served; 
and he knew that the delectable St. Gervais cream 
would not be wanting. He could see the row of 
little glazed earthen-ware cups that had cooled in 
the depths of the well until their sides were cov- 
ered with a clinging moisture that also lay like 
dew upon the broad green leaf fastened over the 
top of each. They contained Bertrand’s favorite 
after-dinner refection, and were always served 
with cherry cordial. 

On Victor’s arrival the family would all spring 
up in amazement, and Isidore would slap him on 
the back in hearty welcome and then make a place 
beside him ; the boys and Lili would be vociferous 
in their greeting, but Madeleine would only look 
up and smile. And d’Olonet knew that the light 
would fall through the roof of green leaves and lie 
softly on her bright locks, and that a little later 
he and she would wander hand in hand through 
the sweet-smelling garden all by themselves, leav- 
ing the others behind. But Lili would be near. 
Ah, Lili, with her mocking laugh and her dancing 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


229 


eyes, Lili, who never tired of tormenting them — 
she would walk on the other side of the hedge and 
pretend not to see, but she would peep through 
the box branches all the same. He knew that he 
should forgive her, and in the fulness of his heart 
he felt an affection for her also, for was she not 
Madeleine’s sister? 

So the boy dreamed his day-dreams, and the 
woman he loved dreamed hers, though she tried to 
put the future from her. Pursuing the train of 
his reflection Victor imagined that the lawyer 
would ride home day after day and would always 
find the young officer sitting or walking with his 
cherished sister, and d’Olonet dwelt upon the 
thought of Isidore’s pleasant smile, and the cor- 
dial grasp of his hand that should greet them when 
found still together. Bertrand was a good fellow 
too. 

Madeleine had told her constant companion the 
names of the two big dogs that her brother had 
had sent up from the Pyrenees to protect the 
house ; and he also knew the color of the one pretty 
cow that fed in the paddock, and he divided his 
affection between the advocate’s old white mare 
and the new roan colt. Victor perpetually as- 


230 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


sured himself that the month of June was the love- 
liest of all the year, and that as soon as the Ber- 
trands moved out to St. Germain, he, too, would 
leave the city and take up his quarters in the hotel 
on the square that faced the stern-faced castle in 
the town. He was steadily growing stronger and 
was very nearly well once more. A good walk 
through the odorous forest every day, when on his 
way to see his friends, would make a new man of 
him. 

While he was making these pleasant plans, 
Madeleine was at last schooling herself to realize 
that when the time came for her to leave Paris 
their familiar intercourse must cease. At least 
until then she would remain happy. For once, 
however, her calculations were all at fault. One 
never can foresee such things, and the decisive 
words were spoken just when both she and Victor 
had least expected them. It all came about quite 
simply too, as is natural when hearts are so full 
that one word will make them brim over. They 
were standing together one afternoon in the emp- 
ty conservatory, while she explained how her 
plants had been transferred to her garden in the 
open air. But one rose-vine remained, and it had 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


231 


become so entwined in the lattice that its removal 
was impossible, so it had been left where it was, 
with a fresh supply of earth for its sustenance. 
With that exception, her winter bower was a thing 
of the past, and only deserted shelves and a few 
broken pots remained to remind one of its de- 
parted glor}'. The sight sent a little chill of dis- 
appointment through the young man, for he associ- 
ated the beginning of all his happiness with the 
wealth of beauty and of fragrance that he had 
found there on that evening which now seemed 
so long ago, when he had met Madeleine for the 
first time. 

How different everything was now ! As he 
looked out upon the crowded street, and watched 
the hurrying people pass along, all busy with their 
own affairs, he became thoughtful ; and then he 
turned to glance at his companion who stood si- 
lently beside him, and he felt even more strongly 
than he ever had before that he and she w'ere far 
removed from every one else in the wide world. 
The distant hum of the city’s life came to them as 
they stood side by side, quite alone, in the open 
window; and Victor remembered with a pang that 
the time was soon coming w’hen the duties and 


232 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


cares of his career would claim him, and the camp 
and the army would call him away from his pres- 
ent existence of peace and ease. It all came home 
to him with a poignant force that afternoon ; and 
as he stood beside his love his hand lay on the 
hilt of his sword, and he looked out into the limit- 
less blue of the summer sky, noticing, half uncon- 
sciously, how the slanting rays of the sun touched 
with gold the tops of the chestnut trees in the 
Tuileries Gardens, while he felt instinctively that 
the time to speak had come. 

“ Mademoiselle,” he said very softly, “my long 
furlough is nearly over, and, thanks to you, I have 
been saved to take up my country’s service again. 
No one can ever know what these weeks have been 
to me; and now it makes me happy to think that 
before I go back to my regiment, I shall still have 
time to see you settled in your country home. I 
had meant to surprise you there, but now I ask : 
may I come?” He did not speak like a love-sick 
boy, but his tones were the serious ones of an earn- 
est man. 

The time had arrived for Madeleine’s resolution 
to be put in effect, but she gave no answer and 
only plucked nervously at the petals of the roses 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


233 


that she wore in her belt. She had had no idea 
that it would be so terribly hard to speak. Her 
heart stood still, and every drop of blood seemed 
to congeal, leaving her cold and stunned ; and her 
lips refused to form the unuttered words that she 
tried to bring forth. It was only what she had 
anticipated, but when the moment came for a 
time all her strength left her. 

“ The world is a very busy place,” he continued, 
“and life’s duties call to all of us; but there are 
resting-places to be found, and mine has been here, 
mademoiselle. I return to the army a better and 
a stronger man for having known you. ” 

Something still rose in her throat and choked 
her, but when she lifted her honest eyes to meet 
his gaze, and forced herself at last to speak, there 
was only a slight tremble in her voice, though her 
exceeding pallor betrayed her agitation, as she 
answered : 

“ Mon ami, do not follow me. Your path of duty 
is elsewhere, and it lies clearly before you. Go, 
and may the saints be with you.” 

She turned, and leaving him standing where he 
was, she re-entered the salon slowly and leaned 
against the harpsichord for support. 


234 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


“ May I not at least take a hope with me, Made- 
leine?” he pleaded as he followed her. “ It will 
inspire and help me, and it will lead me through 
all dangers so that I may win laurels and bring 
them back to you. If you will but give me this, 
I will ask for nothing more. ” 

She could not answer, but she waved him back 
with her hand. 

Then overpow^ered by a rush of impulsive feel- 
ing he fell on one knee beside her, and lifting her 
hand to his lips he pressed them to it passionately ; 
and still holding the unresisting cold fingers within 
his own warm, firm grasp, he looked up into her 
face. His was full of emotion and of a strength 
born of earnest purpose. At that moment he 
would have willingly died for her. All differ- 
ences of station or of age, all obstacles of every 
kind, were annihilated by the intense fervor of his 
desire. Prudence, patience, remembrance of 
other obligations, were all cast to the winds as he 
murmured fervently: “Madeleine, I adore you. 
Will you be my wife?” 

Then the room became still as death, though she 
fancied that she could hear the throbbing of their 
beating hearts. 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


235 


He kept her hand in his, but presently he arose 
and standing beside her, tall and grave, he looked 
down into her eyes as he waited for his answer. 
She felt for the first time that he could be a real 
protector to her, and that his strong arm and broad 
shoulder would be a safe and sure support. She 
longed to let her head fall there and take its rest; 
and a conviction dawned upon her that their union 
might be a nobler one than she had ever dreamed 
of. The boy she had helped had become a very 
man, strong and tender. She knew that if she 
went with him it would be well with her. Yet, 
had she the right to do so? For a few seconds she 
hesitated, but it seemed an eternity to them both 
before she drew herself together with determined 
resolve, and laid her hand as though in benediction 
upon the brown head bending toward her. 

“ My friend,” she said calmly, though the sound 
of her own voice sounded as though it came from 
a distance or belonged to some one else, the accent 
was so changed, “my friend, it cannot be. Our 
paths in life are different ; you are noble, I am of 
the people. Besides, you are not free. Go and 
forget me, Victor. Win for your wife some one 
younger than I ; some one that your mother will 


236 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


accept with open arms, one of your own race. Go, 
and my prayers shall follow you.” 

As she continued speaking, her voice grew 
firmer, but her lips blanched, and at the very last 
she could not control their slight quivering. 

“I will not leave you, Madeleine, I swear it,” 
cried Victor, desperately. “ You are young enough 
for me. What do a couple of years matter when 
hearts are true? And as for rank, there is none 
that can surpass the equality of love.” 

“But your honor, Victor? You are bound to 
another, and remember your duty to your mother. ” 

“ There can be no truer honor than in our union. 
Tell me that you love me a little.” 

“ It is because I love you that I bid you go, ” said 
the quiet voice beside him. “ Because our great- 
est happiness lies in doing what is right ; and, dear, 
you know that you are not free. Do not add to 
my pain, Victor, for my heart is breaking.” 

Then he slowly raised his head and placing his 
two hands on her shoulders, he looked straight 
down into her eyes. His face was as white as 
hers, but, though his voice was husky, there was a 
real manhood in his words. 

“I will leave you because you send me away,” 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


237 


he said in strangled tones, “but do not forget that 
I mean to win not only honor and glory but my 
release also, and when I return I shall have a 
right to stay.” 

He crushed her hands tightly between his own, 
and tears were in his eyes when he stooped to 
pick up the rose she had dropped. After that he 
left her without another word, and she heard his 
hurried steps on the stairs as they passed out into 
the street. It was all over. 

Anatole and Victor had thus each become pos- 
sessed of one of Madeleine’s roses, but, while 
d’Harcourt’s was red as blood, d’Olonet’s was of 
the purest white. She had seen him lift it to his 
lips as he left the room. 

Then this strong, calm woman, who had, as long 
as he was there, controlled the outward signs of 
an emotion that was wearing her out, gave way 
entirely, and flinging herself down on the sofa, 
she cried as though her heart would break. 

The room seemed utterly lonely, and the bright 
sunshine appeared only to mock her woe. It was 
in vain that she repeated over and over again that 
it was all right, that everything had happened as 
she had determined that it should; and that even 


238 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


if he were within hearing she would not call him 
back. The old arguments were powerless to 
soothe the pain. His bright boyishness had sup- 
plied the very spice of gayety that her own life 
had lacked. Only after he had really gone had 
she fully realized the utter blank left by his ab- 
sence. “ I am too tired, too careworn, too much 
older,” she repeated again and again. “Besides 
he must do what is right, and while linking his 
life to the freshness of first youth, please his 
mother; but it is hard, bitterly hard, to be left 
alone.” The iron had entered into her soul, and 
prostrated b)’’ her grief, though changeless in her 
resolution, she la)' on the couch entirely uncon- 
scious of the lapse of time until her brother Isidore 
came in somewhat later and found her still there, 
with hands cold as ice and with her beautiful hair 
dishevelled, though her tears had ceased to flow. 

With a rare tact for which she was grateful he 
expressed no surprise, but he quietly knelt beside 
her and laid a caressing hand upon her head; and 
as he gathered her closely to him, she felt that it 
was a comfort to rest upon his faithful shoulder 
and to sob out her trouble there. 

“ Oh, my brother, how I love you. You are the 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN 


239 


only help I have left in the world, for I have sent 
him away from me forever.” 

Like a sensible man he asked no questions, but 
he patted her hand gently as he whispered; “ Poor 
little one, poor little one.” 

When Victor reached the street his head was in 
a whirl, and as he pushed his way through the 
throngs in the thoroughfares he was conscious of 
nothing but his own loss. The blow had been 
stunning. In one moment he had been robbed of 
all that had made existence beautiful and desira- 
ble, and he felt absolutely desolate. Strange to 
say, he held his head high as he pressed on, and 
though suffering keenly he was not cast down, for 
the opposition that he had met with had filled him 
with a growing excitement. There was at least 
something left in life that was worth fighting for. 
The knowledge of Madeleine’s firmness of charac- 
ter ought to have discouraged him more, but strong 
in the conviction of the power of his own love, and 
full of a belief in the sweetness of life, he refused 
to despair. 

He walked on with a springing step in spite of 
the sharp pain in his heart. After all, the world 
was fair and wide; he was well and strong again. 


240 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


and he had his sword ; the future would bring him 
fame. Other soldiers of fortune had won great 
names; why should he not do the same, now that 
he had cast in his lot with the powerful Napoleon? 
Advancement bestowed by the new sovereign was 
what he would strive for. The Empire was both 
Madeleine’s political hope and his own. They 
were living in modern times, and the old titles al- 
ready counted for little. His pulses throbbed and 
tingled as he heard the strains of martial music, 
and when the tramp of marching feet came down 
the street, he felt eager for the active service of 
the army. He would not allow himself to be cast 
down, but he would throw himself into the vortex 
of the new era’s life, and he would struggle with 
all his might to win the laurels that he had prom- 
ised to bring back to her. But a reaction followed 
at last as he thought of the time he might have to 
wait. Perhaps even when he returned, a recog- 
nized hero, Madeleine would still be firm. The 
time might be years hence, and beyond the terrors 
of war he dreaded the interview with his mother 
that was to free him from his first engagement. 

“And pray, who is this demoiselle of the bour- 
geoisie?” he could hear the great lady say, and he 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


241 


recoiled from her cold accent of contempt. He 
knew that he could not bear it. 

He walked on at a tremendous pace, taking long 
strides, and looking neither to the right or to the 
left, his mind intent only upon his own misery. 
The physical exertion was a relief. The people 
looked after him in surprise as he passed, and they 
wondered what it was that carried him on at such 
a rate, but he never noticed them. His thoughts 
were far away, and he alternately repeated to 
himself Madeleine’s last words, and lost himself 
in conjectures as to how he might lead her to 
change her mind. 

The poor boy was going through the most per- 
plexing trouble he had ever known, and with the 
eager resistance of youth, he refused to accept 
fate. He vacillated therefore between hope and 
despair, and wore himself out in the exercise of 
protesting activit5^ The thought of his little con- 
vent-bound bride filled him with a positive disgust, 
and he felt impelled to start at once for Dresden 
in order to tell his mother that her well-laid plans 
had been frustrated. What cared he for that rich 
marriage portion? Here was Madeleine, a very 
queen among women. With her modest and 

i6 


242 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


with his sword they might defy the world — if she 
would only listen to him, 

“Ah, ina mere” he thought, “you who have 
loved me always have prepared a sad fate for your 
son. I hate to grieve you, but wed I will not 
with the one you have chosen.” 

Madeleine’s own words returned to him, and he 
could not but admit their truth, for he knew as 
well as she did that his high-born relations would 
never accept the lawyer’s sister; and that a mar- 
riage with her would inevitably cut him off from 
them. In his growing distress he clinched his 
fists. He even began to envy Anatole who was 
always reckless and unmoved, and apparently free 
from care, though in the midst of misfortunes. 
Then he thought of their long companionship and 
he remembered with something like self-reproach 
that he had not seen the latter for days. He had 
been so taken up with his visits to the Bertrands 
that he had not thought of his friend, and it now 
occurred to him for the first time that Anatole had 
not been near him either. He determined to 
look up his old comrade on the morrow. Life had 
become so lonely! 

He went about the rest of that afternoon in a 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


243 


maze, and finally, tired out with fatigue and 
trouble, he returned to his lodging, and in nervous 
haste began to prepare for an immediate return to 
the army. In the overwrought condition of his 
mind he had been unable to dine, but toward night 
he went out and ordered a bottle of wine and a roll 
of bread at the nearest cafi. As he entered his own 
door a little later, his foot struck upon something 
that lay before the entrance of the house where 
he lived. When he picked it up, he saw to his 
surprise, that it was a neat package sealed with 
wax and directed to de Montfort in Anatole’s 
hand. 

He rang at once for the concierge and asked if 
any one had called, and receiving a reply in the 
negative, he took it for granted that what he had 
found had been dropped by one of the two men, 
or by their messenger, and feeling glad that it had 
fallen into his own hands rather than into a strang- 
er’s, he slipped the roll of what appeared to be 
something soft in his pocket and thought no more 
about it. When he reached his room he gazed 
with positive despair at his scattered belongings 
that lay about in hopeless confusion, just as he 
had left them when he had gone out to partake of 


244 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


that frugal evening meal. He had pulled out 
drawers and had emptied shelves in his haste, and 
now he only longed to be gone. His sense of ab- 
solute loneliness remained to oppress him, and he 
felt incapable of proceeding with his work ; and 
as he paused to contemplate the condition of chaos 
that reigned about him, his face assumed an ex- 
pression of utter helplessness that would have been 
comical, had it not been for the real pain written 
there. And who shall find it in his heart to blame 
him, if, while alone with his shattered hopes, 
the boy shed a few hot tears? He was none the 
less of a man, none the less of a good fellow for 
that; but he was young, he had been bitterly dis- 
appointed, and his emotional Gallic temperament 
had been shaken to its very foundations. He had 
been saved for his life’s work through Madeleine’s 
care, but the sun of his existence had gone out. 


CHAPTER XII. 


When Gabrielle went to get the lace from Ana- 
tole on the morning after their conversation she 
found him very quiet and grave. He was dressed 
with exceeding care. Every detail of his toilet 
showed that it had been attended to with fastidious 
thought. As his white fingers lay on the table 
beside the package they looked like wax, and the 
girl noticed that the blue veins traced upon them 
showed with peculiar distinctness. He had pushed 
to one side the faience coffee-pot and the remnant 
of the roll left from his breakfast. His morning 
meal had not tempted him. Having been freshly 
shaven, his smooth chin was shaded by the tint al- 
ways left behind a dark growth of hair, and this 
was particular!)' noticeable on account of his pale- 
ness. His linen had been done up with extra care 
so that his shirt-front and ruffles were faultless, 
and he wore his most presentable clothes that had 
been so well watched over by Amand Gourtain 
that they still made a favorable appearance. Care- 
ful as Anatole was at all times of his dress, there 

245 


246 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


was something about it on that day that denoted 
especial thought. 

Although Gabrielle did not know it, he had been 
out very early that morning and had confessed 
to a priest and received absolution, thus ridding 
himself of the burden of sins accomplished, and 
remaining satisfied to shoulder alone the respon- 
sibility of the one to come. He greeted her very 
kindly when he opened the door in answer to her 
timid knock, and as they stood opposite each other 
he looked entirely the fine gentleman, kind and 
indulgent, but with whom the taking of a liberty 
would be impossible, and not in the least like a 
man with a desperate resolve in his heart who was 
just about to commit an awful deed. 

How should she have known that at last an op- 
portunity had offered for him to mix with the 
Emperor’s household at St. Cloud, and that this 
would bring him in close proximity to the great 
man? Anatole had broken his fast, and he had 
also paid for a bottle of old wine, for his strength 
must be kept up and his hand must not shake. 
Afterward, if his own life paid the forfeit, it would 
still be well. “Jacques Clement did his work 
also at St. Cloud,’’ thought d’Harcourt. “The 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


247 


augury is good. ” Of course the girl had no sus- 
picion of this as she stood waiting for the package 
she was to carry to de Montfort, and she did not 
know the import of the paper carefully wrapped 
within the old lace. 

Anatole gave his directions with great distinct- 
ness, and she listened to them silently. A barrier 
had arisen between them since the evening before, 
and she felt already as though he were going 
away for always, or as though he belonged to 
some one else. She felt no inclination to talk and 
only answered quietly: “ Yes, monsieur,” and care- 
fully hid what he gave her within the bosom of 
her dress. Then she followed him down stairs 
and saw him exchange a few words with her father 
before he left the house. When he passed out and 
went down the Rue des Trois Canettes, she 
watched him until he was out of sight. She never 
forgot just how he looked that day. Each line of 
his figure remained indelibly stamped upon her 
mind. 

She was still laboring under the spell he had 
cast about her the night before, and her love bade 
her believe that he was engaged in some great 
and good business, though her keen wit, sharpened 


248 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


by contact with men of all kinds, taught her to 
suspect that he was involved in some question- 
able scheme. But it was not for her to ask or even 
to surmise what it was; she was prepared to do 
his will blindly. 

She mechanically fulfilled her morning duties. 
She tidied up the dining-room and the bar. She 
swept out the court. She washed down the stone 
steps, and she remembered to water the flowers 
blooming in pots behind the leaded panes of the 
kitchen window. As she went about her menial 
tasks she glanced at her hands and murmured in 
discontent because the work had made them coarse 
and red — so unlike M. Anatole’s. 

He had told her that he had ceased to care for 
earthly things, and the best hope that he had held 
out to her had been to meet him in another world. 
She smiled with a superior knowledge as she 
thought of this, for she had no intention of losing 
him altogether, and she was sure that the one they 
lived in might be made abundantly bright and 
gay. But if that was not to be, she determined 
that she would at least follow him wherever he 
went, and that she would serve him faithfully all 
her life. Once she had seen a play in the theatre 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


249 


where a knight’s lady-love, dressed as a page, had 
followed him to the wars. She could do as much, 
and besides the story had ended well. The knight 
had married the lady after all. 

At last she was free. Her father glanced over 
the spectacles on his nose and went toilsomely 
through the pages of his ledger. Her mother and 
the maids, as well as the one serving-man, were 
busy in the kitchen or the court-yard where there 
was a conglomeration of household effects. Sun- 
dry bits of washing were being hung out to dry, 
and keg-s and casks had to be tapped or rolled into 
the cellar. A few chickens in cages had to be 
fed. The court-yard was the catch-all of the su- 
perfluous paraphernalia of Gourtain’s calling. 

As his pretty daughter stood under the dark 
archway of the entrance her thoughts were unceas- 
ingly occupied with her father’s aristocratic guest. 
vShe remembered that he had been unusually gen- 
tle in manner that morning, and when he had bade 
her farewell he had done so with great courtesy 
and kindness. After he had left the house he had 
turned his head to look at it again, and at her also 
as she had stood within the doorway. A few 
steps further on a young child had met him, and 


250 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


had held up a flower for sale; and Gabrielle had 
seen him feel in his pocket for a copper, but she 
had not known that he had dropped a silver bit in- 
stead into the small hand. She only noticed with 
surprise that he stooped to kiss the little one on its 
forehead. What had made him so tender that 
day? 

Some of those old lanes and streets of Paris were 
surprisingly sleepy and dead. The swarming life 
remained behind the walls until late in the day, 
when it emerged for recreation. Occasionally a 
woman leaned out of a window or over a balcony 
for a breath of air, but all was quiet in the Rue 
des Trois Canettes. There was scarcely a sound 
of passing vehicles, and there being no sidewalk, 
the people who passed, walked in the middle of the 
wa)^ only avoiding the slight incline of the pave- 
ment that slanted toward the middle of the street, 
thus forming the semblance of a gutter that car- 
ried off the drainage, and from which ascended the 
nauseous smell that is apt to haunt such forgotten 
by-ways. Now and then from under a low door- 
way or from out of a window came snatches of 
song, a few poorly dressed children played on the 
uneven cobble-stones, and dabbled in the discolored 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


251 


and soapy water as they sailed their boats made of 
chips. A dog dozed in the sun, the breeze moved 
the canopy of early green that hung over a mil- 
dewed and crumbling wall, and the sun caught on 
the glaze of pottery standing without the windows 
on the sills. A few gay rags fluttered in the air 
that dried them, and above and below the sparrows 
darted and flew as they twittered, and quarrelled, 
and made love over their spring housekeeping. 
High above all spread the serene blue sky, and 
against the azure background rose the towers and 
spire of the great cathedral. It was the same 
quiet picture that Gabrielle had seen every day of 
her life, but she had never noticed its quaint 
charm, and she did not see it now. Monsieur 
Anatole had passed. The frame was there, but 
what constituted the picture to her was gone. 

With a little sigh she came to herself and felt 
for the package securely hidden from sight in her 
bosom ; and then with a backward glance, to see 
that no one saw her, she stepped out of the door 
and hurried away. Down the street she hastened 
and out into the open square. She paused a sec- 
ond before the church, and as she thought of 
d’Harcourt’s words she involuntarily crossed her- 


252 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


self; then she passed on through the ways filled 
with people, past the shops, and cab-stands, and 
flower-stalls, out upon the broad bridge that crossed 
the river, and on through the bustle of the throb- 
bing heart of the great city. 

She wore nothing on her head, after the manner 
of her class; she did not even carry a parasol, and 
the sun beat down upon her unheeded. With her 
hand clutched on the hidden treasure she swiftly 
threaded her way through the passing crowd, 
neither pausing or looking to the right or left, not 
even noticing the various sights along her path 
that as a usual thing would have proved most dis- 
tracting. Arrived at last at de Montfort’s lodging, 
she rang the bell and asked the way to his room. 

“ Monsieur de Montfort?” asked the door-keeper 
with suspicion. “What can a pretty girl like you 
want with him?” 

“ I know him well,” replied Gabrielle, nervously. 
“ He often comes to my father’s inn, and now I 
bring him a message.” 

The man laughed. “ Give it to me, my treasure. 
I will deliver it safely when M. de Montfort comes 
home. He is away.” 

The girl was nearly crying. “ I cannot give it 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


253 


to any one but the gentleman himself. When and 
where can I find him?” 

. “Who knows? He has gone to St. Cloud,” said 
the concierge, “ but M. de Boissy, who lives down 
the street, may be able to tell you when he is to 
return.” 

She hurried on to de Boissy’s door, but the 
identical news met her there. He also had gone 
in the same direction. 

“ Ah, mon Dieu f” she exclaimed in perplexity. 
“ Has all the world gone to St. Cloud? What does 
it mean?” 

She hung about for a time, but she could learn 
nothing more, and at last she went home feeling 
indescribably uneasy at still being possessed of 
the old lace. She wanted to get it off her hands. 
The next day the same thing happened, and the 
next, and then her anxiety turned to alarm. No 
news came from Anatole, the other young men 
kept away from the inn, and it was becoming very 
difficult for her to get away herself, for her par- 
ents disapproved of her wandering about the 
streets in search of amusement, for they thought it 
was that only that took her out. Her mother 
chided her for laziness and would hardly let her 


254 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


from her sight. Nothing was heard of de Mont- 
fort. 

This lasted for some days, and at last the suspense 
and uncertainty became unbearable, and Gabrielle 
could endure it no longer. One day, it was on 
the very afternoon that Victor had paid his last 
visit to Madeleine, she determined upon a course 
of action. This was no less than to apply in per- 
son to the lady of the burnished golden locks for 
news of Anatole, though she was the very per- 
son for whom she had feared at one time that the 
lace was destined. Gabrielle’s heart beat wildly 
at the thought of seeing her for herself, but the 
longer she entertained the idea the surer she be- 
came that this was the only means in her power 
by which she might solve the difficulty. She re- 
membered well the house that she had seen her en- 
ter with d’Harcourt, and she never doubted that 
it was there that the lady lived. As she imagined 
herself being brought face to face with the object 
of her jealousy, she became increasingly eager to 
put her plan in execution. She could then at 
least see if the lady was really as lovely as she had 
seemed to her eyes the first time she had looked 
at her. She wondered if she would be kind, or if 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


255 


she would only spurn the little daughter of the 
people. But something whispered to her troubled 
heart that she was safe from anger at any rate, and 
that this course appeared to be the only means by 
which she might find Anatole again in order to 
tell him that she had been faithful, and that it 
was through no fault of hers that the lace was still 
undelivered. Perhaps the lady would take pity 
on her and help her, though of course she should 
not know what the message was. Gabrielle felt a 
growing pride also that she and d’Harcourt had a 
secret from which the other was excluded, and this 
was so gratifying to her, that she was almost rec- 
onciled to her rival’s existence, and for the mo- 
ment even ceased to hate her. 

So she set out for Victor’s house precipitately, 
never dreaming that she had made a mistake, and 
throwing to the winds all thought of her parents’ 
anger that she would be obliged to face on her re- 
turn. 

Gabrielle was, however, doomed to disappoint- 
ment, for when she arrived at the door she had 
seen Madeleine enter, the man who answered the 
bell could give her no satisfaction. She described 
minutely the person she was in quest of, but he 


256 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


was certain that no such beautiful lady was among 
his '' locataires.” He had only families, and at 
the top of the house a few single gentlemen. At 
last, however, a light dawned upon him, and he 
remembered that when M. d’Olonet had been ill 
a lady had visited him with her brother, M. Ber- 
trand, the advocate. Monsieur d’Harcourt had 
accompanied them. Probably he or M. d’Olonet 
would know the address she wanted. The invalid 
had been well for some time, and his friends had 
ceased to call. Moreover he was out, and had not 
left word when he expected to return. The man 
was cross and unwilling to be interviewed, and 
having told her that he had no idea of d’Harcourt’s 
own address, he shut the door in her face. 

Distracted with worry Gabrielle did not know 
what to do. She feared that she might not be 
able to escape from the inn again, and her only 
hope seemed to be in waylaying d’Olonet in order 
to beg from him some means of communication 
either with Anatole or his lovely friend. She 
waited, therefore, a long time in the street, walking 
up and down before the house, hoping each' second 
that he might come home. She had not eaten a 
mouthful of food since morning, and she at last 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


257 


began to feel faint, but she had not a sou with 
which to buy bread. Accustomed to working in 
the house, she had always been in the habit of car- 
rying a parasol when in the street, but to-day the 
sun had been beating for hours on her unprotected 
head and had ended by making it ache furiously, 
and this was greatly increased by her long fast. 

As the afternoon advanced this feeling was aug- 
mented, for she did not dare to leave her post, and 
she yet feared to remain, and all the time the 
little package weighed her down like lead. She 
stationed herself for the last time, in the despair- 
ing hope that d’Olonet would appear, under the 
heavy architectural work of the doorway just be- 
neath the swinging iron bracket of the lantern ; 
and crouching down in her fatigue, she gave her- 
self still ten minutes in which to wait for him. 
The pain in her head increased; a growing faint- 
* ness from lack of food, and prolonged exposure to 
the sun, which can be very hot as June approaches, 
and to which she was unaccustomed for so long a 
time, and anxiety and bootless fatigue, did-the rest. 
At first she reeled, then everything before her 
grew unreal and misty, then faded away, and a 
blank succeeded. Gabrielle had fainted. 

17 


258 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


It was not long before she was surrounded by a 
garrulous but sympathetic crowd. Water was 
procured, her dress was loosened, her face was 
fanned by a ragged hat held in the hand of a per- 
fect stranger. Then it was that an acquaintance 
of her father’s passed and chanced to recognize 
her. 

“Why,” said he, “that is Gabrielle, the daugh- 
ter of the tavern-keeper in the Rue des Trois Ca- 
nettes. I am driving a load of pottery over the 
river, and I will take her to the Sapin Vert. 
Quelle misere ! What will her parents say?” 

Kind hands lifted the girl into the wagon and 
placed her on a bed of blankets and straw ; and 
more dead than alive she was driven away. It 
was not until she was aroused by the motion of 
the cart going over the bridge, and by the fresh 
air blown in her face from off the river, that she 
sat up, and in the first second of returning con- 
sciousness grasped at her breast. The package 
had gone. It had fallen unnoticed from out of 
her loosened clothes when she had been carried 
away ; and overmastered by terror as she realized 
this truth, she bowed her face in her hands and 
wept bitterly. She begged frantically to be al- 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


259 


lowed to return in order to look for what she had 
lost, and she called it a trinket to avert suspicion. 
The man who drove her only laughed and would 
not heed her, saying that if lost the object had 
been picked up already and that he had no time to 
return. For her comfort he suggested that the 
concierge might have found it and would restore 
her property. 

But, as we know, when Victor at last came 
home, it was he who found the package; and at 
the very moment when Gabrielle was bewailing 
her loss and was crying as though her heart would 
break, he was sitting disconsolately in his room 
amid the confusion of his packing, and, though the 
lace lay in his pocket, he gave it no thought. In 
his own distress he had completely forgotten that 
it was there. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


He was still sitting in his room with his mind 
much perturbed when de Boissy entered. Victor 
saw at once that he was laboring under the most 
intense excitement, but he was so absorbed in his 
own trouble that it made less impression on him 
than it might have done at another time. 

''‘Mon cher” said the newcomer as he ap- 
proached and laid his hands on his friend’s shoul- 
ders, “ I bring you a message in great haste from 
Anatole.” 

“Well?” answered the other, absent-mindedly. 

“But you must listen,” continued his visitor, im- 
patiently, “for it is very important. Anatole is 
in trouble.” 

“He is always in trouble,” said d’Olonet with 
growing irritation. “What does he want? Money? 
I have hardly any myself, but he can have half of 
what is left.” 

“No,” said the other almost angrily, “it is not 
money. If you will only pay a little attention to 

what I am saying, I will explain everything. Why, 
260 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


261 


man, you look as though you had not a friend in 
the world, and did not care to help your best com- 
rade. Your thoughts are somewhere else. Come 
down from out of the clouds. ” 

“Ah, Raoul,” said Victor, as his eyes filled, “I 
have had a misfortune also. I am stunned. I 
cannot think.” 

“But you must think,” answered de Boissy 
roughly, and his voice became harsh with excite- 
ment and impatience, “ for I have not a second to 
lose. Don’t sit there looking like a scared owl. 
Pull yourself together, rnon ami; you are needed. ” 

Victor laughed, but it was the very ghost of 
merriment, a poor, shadowy sort of a thing; but 
seeing that there was really something of moment 
to hear, he kicked away a pile of coats that lay on 
the floor, and turning to de Boissy he prepared to 
listen. 

The other pulled out a chair and straddling 
across it, he folded his arms over the back, and 
began to speak rapidly. 

“ I told you that Anatole was in trouble, no mat- 
ter how or about what. He is in a serious pre- 
dicament. That is enough for the present. When 
you see him, you can ask for the details, and he 


262 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


will tell you all himself. He went out to St. 
Cloud a week ago. He had business there, or at 
least he thought he had; and he hung about the 
place for a couple of days hoping to meet the man 
with whom he had an affair. Are you listening?” 
he asked sharply, seeing that Victor’s eyes had 
wandered. 

“Yes,” answered d’Olonet smiling. He sup- 
posed it was an affair of honor, and he considered 
it extraordinary that Anatole managed to become 
so often involved in such matters. 

De Boissy went on. “Well, the chance was 
delayed. The man he had hoped to meet was in- 
disposed, so d’Harcourt waited on at the inn, hop- 
ing each day that he might be able to see him. 
The very morning that Anatole left Paris, de 
Montfort and I called to see him, and finding that 
he had gone out to St. Cloud, we followed him. 
We guessed at once what his business was and we 
wanted to be on hand. It happened, however, that 
this annoyed him, so Jules returned to the city, but 
I remained for another day. It seems that when 
de Montfort arrived in Paris he found that he too 
was in trouble. He did not dare to go to his own 
rooms for the police were looking for him, and 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


263 


Anatole’s inn was also watched. Not knowing 
what else to do, he hid in my lodging, and I found 
him there when I returned. I might as well tell 
you that we are all three ‘wanted,’ but Anatole 
is in hiding, and de Montfort is already far on his 
way to England. He will sleep in Calais to-night. 
Will you help us?” 

“You must tell me the whole truth first,” said 
Victor decidedly, for he began to feel really 
alarmed. “ However you may all care to risk 
your character as men of honor, I, at least, will 
not disgrace my uniform. What in the world have 
gentlemen to do with police?” 

He folded his arms and paced up and down the 
room as he waited. 

“It is nothing, a mere bagatelle," said de Boissy 
airily as he snapped his fingers. “ It is always 
easy for a man about town to fall into these little 
complications. It will pass. I posted out to St. 
Cloud to-day to warn Anatole, and he is safely 
hidden elsewhere now. It will be better so for a 
few days. In -the meantime he sends you a com- 
mission. He is not to be trusted to do it himself. 
Imagine his indiscretion ! When the Emperor 
went out to drive this afternoon, d’Harcourt actu- 


264 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


ally stood among the crowd to see him pass. Such 
rashness is incredible when one is in danger of 
arrest. He attracted attention to himself also, 
for he pressed so closely to the front that he was 
kicked by one of the horses of the escort, and fell 
just as the cortege passed. Will you do what he 
asks?” 

But Victor’s mind had wandered again, and he 
was wondering if he might dare to go once more 
to Madeleine in order to bid her farewell before 
he left Paris himself. Inaction had become hate- 
ful to him, and he longed for his duties in the 
army. Though he had hardly heard all that de 
Boissy was saying, when he caught the words 
“safely hidden” he started in real concern. 

“ How can I say before I know what it is that 
he wants? But I tell you, Raoul, I can have 
nothing to do with secret doings, whatever they 
are. I will risk my life at any time for Anatole, 
and he knows that as well as I do. Tell me the 
whole truth now, and set my mind at rest by as- 
suring me that his honor is not at stake, and I will 
gladly do anything. What have you all been 
about?” 

''Mon cher, do not worry about the honor of An- 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


265 


atole. He is a gentleman,” said Raoul, impres- 
sively. 

“Yes,” assented Victor,*vvith a sigh of relief, as 
he tried to reassure himself, “d’Harcourt is that, 
but what in the name of rea.son have the police to 
do with gentlemen? Have done, I tell you, with 
this policy of evasion. ” 

“Have a little patience,” answered de Boissy, 
soothingly, though he with difficulty controlled his 
own temper. “You shall know everything. An- 
atole was simply crazy, when he heard from me to- 
day that Jules de Montfort had started for England, 
without first hunting up a servant of d’Harcourt’s 
who had in charge various papers of importance, 
but the truth was, he had no time. There was a 
girl, too, mixed up in the case, I believe, and there 
was a debt of honor to redeem. I asked no ques- 
tions, but I heard some mention of old lace, an 
heirloom, I imagine. It was something that 
nearly concerned them both. When I left him, 
Anatole was raving, and he gave me this letter 
for you, which will explain everything. Now I 
am off.” 

He arose hastily and handed Victor a folded 
paper, but as the latter was about to break the 


266 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


seal he paused to ask : “ Why do you not attend 
to such errands yourself, Raoul?” 

Mille-tonnerres ! I have no time either. I 
must get out of Paris to-night. It is quixotic of 
Anatole to make such a fuss about hunting up that 
girl. I can do nothing, for I am too well known 
at the inn where she lives; — and besides, I must 
look out for my own skin now. I am really going. 
Good-by.” 

He bolted through the door and down the stairs, 
leaving Victor with the half-opened note in his 
hand. Stuffing it into his pocket he darted after 
de Boissy, but the other was too quick for him. 
Reaching the entrance first, he passed through, 
and slammed the heavy door behind him. B)’' the 
time d’Olonet got to the street de Boissy was out 
of sight, and all efforts to trace him proved use- 
less. Disturbed and angry, Victor returned at 
last to his own room to read the unwelcome com- 
munication. With his head wearily supported on 
his hand, he perused the letter, and he saw at the 
first glance that he had to do with something of 
most serious import. He frowned as he read, and 
blamed himself for having let Raoul escape. The 
epistle ran thus: 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


267 


“Victor, do you know that the love I bear you 
is greater than a brother’s? Were it not so, I 
would not approach you now, but you are the only 
one that I have left in the world to whom I can 
turn for help. Forgive me for the errors of the 
past ; think kindly of me in the future, and re- 
member that, whatever else I may have done, I 
have always loved you better than my life. For 
the sake of the long friendship that has united us 
since boyhood, I adjure you to fulfil without ques- 
tion the supplication that I am about to make of 
you. Go to the Sa^in Veri in the Rue des Trois 
Canettes, hard by the church of Notre Dame, for I 
dare trust no one else to bear this message, and 
seek to get speech with Gabrielle the inn-keeper’s 
daughter. Do not do this in the tavern ; simply 
learn to know her there, and then meet her out- 
side — in the church, at the market — I care not 
where. When you find her alone, tell her that I 
have great need of what she has in her keeping, 
and then 5^ou must bring her or send her to me. 
She has valuable papers of mine in her possession, 
but she will give them into no hands but mine or 
de Montfort’s, not even into yours, though I send 
you — and he has gone to England. He has de- 


268 


UNDER THE CORSICA N 


serted the cause like a traitor at the first alarm. 
I am in very serious trouble, Victor, and if my 
hiding-place were discovered it would go hard 
with me. The disposal of those papers is a mat- 
ter of life and death, perhaps of many lives; and 
I will not leave here until I can see and speak 
with Gabrielle. The girl was to deliver them to 
de Montfort from me, but he has kept out of her 
way— and I know that she would die rather than 
betray her trust. She will come to me if you will 
show her the way. You are not known at the 
Sap'/i Vert. Moreover, your uniform will disarm 
suspicion and your risk will be slight. The 
papers are wrapped within a web of rare old lace 
that is worthy of an Empress’ attire. It is fine 
and of choicest workmanship — it is fit for a king’s 
ransom. That shall be for your bride. Tell 
Madeleine that if any prayers can help me through 
the fires of Purgatory, hers will be the onl)'- ones 
capable of the arduous task. One other thing I 
ask of you. Some time, when these troubled days 
are over, say to your sister Antoinette from me, 
that in this hour of my need I sent her greeting, 
and that I desired her to know that I have loved 
her always as a brother through the vicissitudes of 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


269 


my troubled life, though I did not realize how it 
was until now. As I have waited here in solitude 
and thought, many things have become clear to me. 
Bid her to be happy and to thank Heaven that she 
has been spared from linking her life with mine. 
I write as a dying man, for if they come I will not 
be taken alive. Yet I will live, if it be possible, 
for I have still a great work to do. Lastly, I am 
hidden here at Chardon’s, the wine-merchant of 
Auteuil. He is true to me. His messenger will 
bring you a basket of wine to-morrow. Samples, 
you understand, for sale. If you will undertake 
my commission, keep the bottles; if you refuse, 
send them back. The porter knows nothing about 
me, but in this way I can receive your answer. 
Raoul can do naught, for he is a marked man. 
Burn this at once, and remember that what I ask 
is the only request that I have ever made of you. 

“A. d’H.” 

When Victor had finished reading these words 
for the second time, he sat quite still, looking 
thoughtfully before him; then he held the paper 
in the flame of the candle and watched while it 
was slowly consumed, leaving only crisp, black, 
curling scraps behind it. He felt crushed by the 


270 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


accumulation of worry and trouble that over- 
whelmed him, and as he tried to disentangle the 
confused threads of information, he suddenly 
recollected the mysterious package that he had 
picked up at his door. He felt for it in his pocket, 
and taking it out he examined it closely. As it 
lay on his palm, there came to him, like a flash of 
lightning, the remembrance of the strange letter 
he had received from Anatole before his illness, 
and he now, by some process of intuition, connected 
it with the matter in hand. He had completely 
forgotten the epistle during the weeks that had 
been filled with such new, sweet experiences for 
himself, and his fears having been once disarmed, 
there had been nothing in d’Harcourt’s manner 
to incline his friend to suspect him of hidden 
schemes, Victor’s first vague mistrust had van- 
ished, but now his fears were aroused again, and 
knowing Anatole’s fierce adherence to the royalist 
cause, he concluded at once that he was plotting 
against the Empire. As he looked at the package, 
directed in his friend’s fine but legible writing to de 
Montfort, and felt that it contained a roll of some- 
thing of a soft texture, he would have given 
worlds to ^certain what it was, and would have 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


271 


been only too thankful had he felt justified in de- 
stroying it then and there. Could this be what 
Anatole had wanted? Had the girl been less true 
than he had supposed? Had what he held been 
dropped on purpose for him to pick up, or had it 
fallen there by accident? Victor was in a desper- 
ate quandary. At one moment he felt that it was 
his duty to deliver the package to the authorities 
at once ; — and then he recoiled from the thought 
of harming his friend, the friend who had saved 
his life and who had thrown himself on his mercy 
without fear — and besides, what he had found 
might only concern his private affairs. But the 
inner conviction grew so strong within him that 
what he held was of dangerous character, that he 
started up to call de Boissy back, and then returned 
to his seat with a grim smile as he realized that 
he was already far beyond his reach. The words, 
“ It is a matter of life and death, perhaps of many 
lives,” kept ringing in his ears', and he cursed 
himself for his own carelessness. 'Why had he let 
Raoul escape? He had no means of finding out 
what it all meant, and did not even then suspect 
the full extent of Anatole’s villany, but he came 
to a conclusion at last. Of course there was but 


272 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


one thing to be done, for a gentleman and a sol- 
dier never betrays his trust, so he carefully placed 
the parcel in his breast pocket, as he determined to 
keep it until it could be gotten rid of conscien- 
tiously, but he resolved not to be caught in such a 
predicament again. He decided that he would 
see Gabrielle without delay, and that he would 
take her himself to his friend ; but then he would 
demand the immediate destruction of the package, 
unless he received absolute proof of its harmless 
character. After that he would tell d’Harcourt 
plainly that he would at any time risk his own life 
to serve him ; but when his country was concerned, 
his duty to “ /a Patrie" came even before loyalty 
to his friend, and he could not countenance in any 
way what would be untrue to the cause he believed 
in. Private matters were one thing, but he was 
an officer sworn to the service of the tricolor. 

He was very unhappy, for in spite of every- 
thing he loved Anatole truly, and the perplexing 
situation, coming at the end of a most trying day, 
was almost too much for him. Worn out with 
conflicting emotions, he flung himself, all dressed 
as he was, upon the bed, and fell into a heavy sleep. 

Towards morning he was awakened by a loud 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


273 


knock on his door, and when it was opened from 
without with scant ceremony, a squad of soldiers 
entered, led by a sergeant who carried a lantern 
under his arm. The latter advanced promptly to 
the bed, and Victor sat up, half aroused and quite 
bewildered by this sudden invasion of intruders. 
The flickering light that the leader carried re- 
vealed the confusion in the room, and it also 
showed that the young man was still dressed. 
Nothing appeared to escape the notice of the 
officer in charge, and he laid his hand on d’Olo- 
net’s shoulder, saying sternly as he did so: “We 
are looking for one Anatole d’Harcourt. I arrest 
you, sir, in the name of the Emperor.” 

“ That is not my name,” said the other, springing 
to his feet, as he felt an instant realization of com- 
ing evil. “ What brings you into the house of an 
honest man at this hour?” 

The sergeant only placed the lantern upon the 
table, from where its pale rays continued to light 
the scene. 

“I regret the necessity, monsieur,” he replied, 
“but we shall be obliged to search you.” 

The remembrance of what lay in his pocket 

flashed through the captive’s mind, and he 
18 


274 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


glanced about quickly, but there was no loophole 
of escape, and the window was several stories 
from the ground. The officer followed his look, 
and he also took note of the clothes, and boots, 
and spurs that littered the floor. His men simply 
grounded their arms and waited. 

“ Monsieur was meditating a speedy departure,” 
he remarked, sententiously. 

His prisoner folded his arms and answered 
coolly and proudly: “ I am Victor, Count d’Olonet. 
You will find my name on. all my belongings. I 
am about to return to my command in the army.” 

“Men often travel under assumed names,” per- 
sisted the sergeant. “ If you are really not d’Har- 
court, perhaps you can tell us where he is. His 
own room is empty, and he has been seen to go in 
here. If you are the man we are seeking it was a 
clever trick to take possession of d’Olonet’s effects. 
If we have made a mistake it will be easy to es- 
tablish your identity. I repeat it, we shall be 
obliged to examine your papers.” 

Resistance being useless, Victor was forced to 
submit while his pockets were rifled and an ex- 
haustive search was made among his belongings. 
Thq officer’s quick eye caught sight at once of the 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


275 


burnt scraps on the table. “That may be bad for 
you,” he remarked. When he found the sealed 
package his looks betrayed his satisfaction. “ Now 
we shall see,” he said. “March.” 

So Victor was led away a prisoner, but he re- 
tained his presence of mind, and did not forget to 
call out to the concierge., who had followed the 
soldiers, and stood behind them completely bewil- 
dered at this unexpected visitation. 

“ A messenger will come to-day with samples of 
wine,” said d’Olonet. “Tell him what has hap- 
pened and where they have taken me. If he de- 
sires my custom he must call again.” 

The man promised faithfully, and a moment 
later Victor had stepped out into the street with 
his guards. He had done what he could to com- 
municate with Anatole. 

He made no opposition to what they told him 
to do, and he walked on with a firm step and with 
his head held high. Conscious of his own perfect 
innocence, he was only annoyed, not alarmed, at 
what had happened. The day was breaking, and 
wheels were already heard on the pavement. The 
milk-venders were abroad, and the wooden rattle 
of the early waffle-sellers announced to the passing 


276 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


work-people that a hot mouthful could be bought. 
The gray and uncertain light of dawn was dying 
out, and in the east the sky looked rosy. The air 
was balmy. No one noticed the group hurrying 
along in the direction of the gloomy prison haunted 
by sinister memories. Victor was walking so 
rapidly and so unresistingly that, seeing him in 
uniform, a passer might have thought him in 
command rather than in the keeping of that knot 
of silent men. White blouses passed as the plas- 
terers went by, and not one turned his head; blue 
blouses and ragged coats went on their way, but 
their wearers looked on indifferently; bare-headed 
and aproned women, artisans, and menials hur- 
ried along; but none of the quality were out at 
that early hour. Here and there shutters were 
being lifted from a shop window; now and again 
splashing water showed where the sidewalk was 
being washed. Market-wagons rolled heavily. 
Flower-women ranged their plants along the 
(/t/ais and bridges. The city was waking up. 
And alone, and in durance, the innocent man was 
hastened on. 

It took but a short time to lead him before 
the proper authorities, and the necessary for- 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


277 


malities were quickly disposed of. His name was 
entered upon the prison register as d’Harcourt’s, 
“ sot-disant Comte Victor d’Olonet;” and the sun 
was still low in the sky when he found himself 
alone and securely locked in a cell. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


During the hours that followed Victor had 
plenty of time for reflection, and he tried in vain 
to understand the web of circumstance that had 
bound him so surely in its toils. His being 
clearly a case of mistaken identity, he was less 
concerned than he might have been, except for 
the inconvenience of the detention, and he con- 
cluded that the mistake had arisen from his close 
association with Anatole. He never doubted that 
his own release would be speedily effected. If 
worst came to the worst, d’Harcourt would surely 
come to free him. But as he thought of this he 
shuddered, for he feared that his friend’s risk 
would be great. He dared not think how seriously 
he might be compromised. 

As time went on, his own patience was put to a 
severe test, for no one came near him. He occu- 
pied himself incessantly in trying to piece together 
half forgotten scraps of conversation, and in doing 
his best to connect any words or acts of Anatole’s 

that might throw some light upon the mysterious 
278 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


279 


undertaking that had brought them both into 
trouble. Victor was in reality more uneasy about 
the former than he was for himself, but as no solu- 
tion of the enigma presented itself, he fell at last 
to thinking exclusively of his own affairs, and of 
all that had happened to transform his existence. 

A lifetime seemed to separate the last months 
from his former being, and he knew that all the 
new resolves and the high purposes now welling 
up within his heart had been prompted by the 
woman that he loved, and he also knew that it 
was through her influence that he had learned to 
discard the frivolities that had once amused him. 
He thought of her clear gaze and of her gentle 
smile, and even the desolate cell seemed less lonely 
when such tender recollections came to keep him 
company. He did not blame her for having re- 
jected him, but he only found fault with himself 
for having dared to dream it possible to win a 
creature so far removed from ordinary mortals as 
he believed Madeleine to be. And, after all, she 
had said that she loved him, and the knowledge 
of that was a recompense for everything. 

It seemed wonderful to him that, with her great 
nature, she had ever stooped to make a friend of a 


28 o 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


wild young officer like himself, and that she had 
admitted him to that blissful companionship. Now 
that she had confessed her affection, what might 
not time bring to pass? 

I.,ili, with her bright face and winsome ways, 
was a joy to look upon; but she was a very child, 
in spite of her marked talents, petulant and gay — 
an elusive thing beside her grave, sweet sister. 

Then his thoughts reverted to his mother, and he 
was angry with himself for having delayed an in- 
stant to free himself from that old, encumbering 
engagement. What right had she to fetter him 
with such bonds? Come what might, he would 
throw them off. If Madeleine would not relent, he 
could at least watch her from afar and adore her 
silently. He did not despair, for he was young and 
ardent, and he felt that all things were possible. 
He even fancied himself coming home with an 
empty sleeve, but with decorations on his breast, 
and he imagined the pride and affection to be read 
in her eyes. It seemed to him a better thing to 
go through life maimed, but blessed with her love, 
than to live apart and whole. He smiled, and his 
face glowed, and his eyes grew tender; and then 
he came to himself with a start — and as he saw 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


281 


the grim walls frowning down on him, he remem- 
bered with a pang the force of character with 
which Madeleine was wont to carry out her resolu- 
tions. With folded arms, and with his head sunk 
forward on his breast, he paced the stone floor, 
while his mind changed continually from hope to 
despair. 

He also wondered over Anatole’s strange mes- 
sage to Antoinette, though he had not seen her for 
years. What had he meant? Why had he, in the 
time of his trouble, turned back to a sweet dream 
of his youth? But d’Harcourt was right. Antoi- 
nette was too sunny and too joyous to link her 
future to so dark a life as his. 

The time passed wearily, and no one came near 
him but the jailer, who brought him a frugal meal 
and then departed without a word. All that day 
and night elapsed without communication with 
the outer world, and the isolation and uncertainty 
became intolerable. Had Anatole received the 
message? Why then had he delayed his coming? 

It was not until the third day that Victor was 
brought to a full realization of his own position. 
He then learned to his horror that, though his 
identity had been established, he was held as an 


282 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


accomplice in a plot to assassinate the Emperor, 
and that the papers hidden within the folds of old 
lace and found on his person revealed a traitorous 
correspondence with the English. His well-known 
intimacy with d’Harcourt, who was now recog- 
nized as the soul of the scheme, was against Vic- 
tor, and his own position as a soldier of the 
Empire rendered the case particularly serious; — 
and until he could clear himself, he was held as 
one of the principals in the plot. Little by little, 
a chain of circumstantial evidence had wound itself 
around him, and he was perilously near to being 
judged b}’’ the clause in the law that proscribed 
all persons bearing arms against France ; and if 
the verdict of the court was unfavorable, sentence 
of death might be passed. Aghast at his own 
terrible position, he was also shocked beyond 
measure at d’Harcourt’s conception of a crime so 
execrable. Why did he not come to free him ; 
what had caused the delay? 

As he lay waiting for his trial, the serene June 
days ran their course, flooding the city with sun- 
shine, and even piercing his gloomy cell with rays 
of light. And then, all at once, a tremor of excite- 
ment ran through Paris, and for a few days noth- 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


283 


ing else was talked of. Pichegru, the unfaithful 
general, had been found dead, strangled, upon the 
floor of his prison. Sinister murmurs filled the 
air, and some people looked wise. Was this a 
suicide, or, had he like d’Enghien, died to insure 
the Emperor’s peace of mind? This suggestion 
was whispered low, but with many it gained cre- 
dence. Meanwhile preparations for a great trial 
were going on, and almost daily arrests of Chou- 
ans were made either in Brittany or in Paris, and 
Cadoudal and Moreau were examined several 
times. On the 6th of June the examinations of all 
the accused persons were published, and on the 
loth a number were convicted and sentenced to 
death, though, to the astonishment of every one, 
the punishment of de Polignac, Moreau, and sev- 
eral others, was commuted to fine and imprison- 
ment. The formidable conspiracy so well known 
to history, was thus quelled ; — but the discovery of 
d’Harcourt’s papers could but add fuel to the 
flame of justice, and Victor’s case was not 
improved. 

Though but little news had penetrated to his 
cell, d’Olonet had heard enough. Thunderstruck 
that he should have been suspected of something 


284 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


as foreign to his nature as to his knowledge, he 
was still even more indignant than alarmed; but, 
in spite of everything, he never hesitated as to his 
own course of action. Anatole would surely come 
to free him from restraint, and his name from 
dishonor; and for that he would wait patiently 
without betraying the hiding-place of his friend, 
D’Harcourt had saved his life more than once; he 
had stood .beside him in danger and in trouble, 
and, much as the young officer loathed the crime 
of which his close companion was more than sus- 
pected, he considered that, as the plot had been ren- 
dered abortive by the discovery of the papers, his 
own duty to his country did not require him to 
deliver his old friend to justice. The conscious- 
ness of his own complete innocence upheld him in 
the trying situation, and he felt such confidence 
in Anatole’s certain course of action that he was 
actually more concerned for him than he was for 
himself. He determined, however, that if he were 
brought to trial he would argue his own cause, and 
then, in spite of tormenting thoughts, his mind 
drifted back to Madeleine. 

Life was very sweet to the young man. Until 
he had been deprived of his freedom he had not 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


285 


known how gladsome it was. He had been stimu- 
lated to lead a finer existence, and he now chafed 
indescribably at his confinement and forced in- 
activity. 

“ I must make her proud of me,” he cried to the 
unresponsive walls. “ I can, and I will as soon as 
these purblind officials learn that an innocent man 
should go as free as air.” 

His sanguine temperamemt bore him up wonder- 
fully, and kept him hopeful through circumstances 
that would have caused most men the gravest ap- 
prehension. “ The accusation is simply prepos- 
terous!” he cried — and so, in truth, it was. 

In the meantime Madeleine knew nothing of her 
lover’s misfortune. When she had lifted her head 
from her brother’s shoulder after that first passion- 
ate outburst in which she had given vent to her 
feelings after Victor’s departure, .she knew that 
she was a changed woman, and that, though she 
could and would take up her duties once more, the 
very light of her life had gone out. She arose 
presently, and as she stood beside Isidore, motion- 
less and erect, she had suddenly grown calm again. 
Her face was as pale as death, and its sad, patient 
expression went to his heart, but he knew Made- 


286 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


leine well, and he saw that the lines of her mouth 
did not indicate any symptoms of flinching. She 
placed a cold hand on his and said quietly: 

“ My brother, all is over. Do not remind me 
again of the past. It was a beautiful dream.” 

He knew that the time had not come to argue, 
so he only returned the pressure of her hand ; but 
the pain on his face was almost as marked as that 
on her own when she turned and walked silently 
out of the room. During the days that followed 
no moan escaped her. 

‘‘It is but one thing more,” she murmured 
through her trembling lips as she went about her 
usual occupations, or else when she knelt alone be- 
fore the little shrine in her own room. Only within 
the blessed seclusion of those sheltering walls 
did she allow herself to give way, and she often 
remained upon her knees far into the night as she 
prayed for succor. “Oh, Mother of God,” she 
whispered through her tears, “give me strength 
to bear it.” 

Then she schooled herself to fortitude and asked 
herself with introspective questionings why she 
had loved him so. The attachment had grown 
uninvited, and it was clearly a thing against 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


287 


reason. The difference between their ages alone 
was enough to make a union impossible. She 
had meant no harm in lavishing upon him that 
tender, sisterly solicitude that had developed in 
spite of herself into something else — and she 
knew that, after all, it had been their close rela- 
tions that had kept him out of temptations, and had 
also wooed him back to life and health. She had 
never hoped for any result but this, and she had 
always seen more clearly than he had that their 
future might not lie in the same direction. 
Young, brilliant, already high in favor, it seemed 
madness for Victor to rob himself of advancement 
that was open to him ; — and she, of all persons, 
was the last one to allow such a mistake. He had 
not realized what he had demanded or what he 
was giving up, when, turning his back on all his 
family traditions, he had asked the lawyer’s sister 
to be his wife. She argued it all out to herself, 
and she knew that she had acted the part of an 
honorable woman when she had sent him away. 
But the pain of it! The rooms looked desolate, 
and the days seemed barren, in spite of the busy 
hours. The very sky appeared to have lost its 
light. To Madeleine, who had been robbed of her 


288 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


youth and of its rights, the blow came with over- 
powering force. She had never dreamed that such 
happiness could enter her life, and had always felt 
that she lived but for others; — but the precious 
thing once offered, and then snatched away, had 
left a blank that could not be filled. It was not 
until she lost him that she confessed to herself 
that she loved him with all the depth of her strong 
nature. At the same moment she had acknowl- 
edged and rejected the one romance of her life. 

It was extraordinary how his personality was 
connected with every action of her day. As she 
passed among the empty pots in the conservatory, 
she remembered how he had helped her tie up the 
one remaining vine. When the delicate porcelain 
cups were handed around, she thought of how he 
had always carried his to place it on the corner of 
the high mantel-shelf, having acquired the habit 
of drinking his tea or chocolate standing, in order 
that he might look down on her as she sat behind 
the steaming urn. She did not know that she had 
made a picture to delight any man’s eye as she 
had presided there in her fresh attire with flowers 
at her girdle, while her slender white hands were 
busied among the tea-things, and her head was 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


289 


poised so that the light lay on her bright locks. 
To Victor the sight was at once so harmonious and 
so domestic that he had placed himself where he 
could see it best. All through the day she was 
reminded of him in a thousand little ways — and 
where this sweet companionship had existed, there 
now remained only a void. 

But she neglected none of her usual duties. She 
was gentle and loving to all about her, untiring in 
her attention to Isidore’s wants, watchful in her 
care of the boys, and ceaseless in her interest when 
they came home from the Lycee Louis le Grand; 
— even patient with Lili in her varying moods. 
Some women in her position might have turned to 
the cloister and have sought to busy a wrecked life 
in the performance of charitable deeds, but Made- 
leine was not in sympathy with such a train of 
thought. A busy life in the world seemed to con- 
tain more of solace to her. A simple, direct way 
of doing good, with no ostentation or outward 
show of livery, suited her pure, strong soul the 
best. To suffer and to be silent had always been 
her motto, and now she only blamed herself for 
not having put a stop to everything long before; — 
but she prayed constantly and fervently from a 

19 


290 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


full heart for Victor’s happiness. Though he had 
left her desperately, she did not deceive herself, 
for she knew well that consolation would surely 
come to his sunny nature and easily moved affec- 
tions ; — and the strong woman, in the very intensity 
of her suffering, through her supplications, as well 
as through the protecting tenderness of her heart, 
still held before Victor the aegis of her love. 

Therefore, she possessed herself with a great 
patience, and took up her life again quietly, and, 
except for the pathetic look that lay on her face 
and showed in her hazel eyes, she gave no sign of 
what she suffered. 

The days were very full, for she was preparing 
to go to St. Germain, and before the cottage in 
the country could be opened there were many 
things to be attended to in Paris. Her plans were 
changed suddenly, however, for Isidore was un- 
expectedly called to Lyons on business, and Made- 
leine and Lili determined to wait a fortnight 
longer in the city with Gaspard and R4ne. Ber- 
trand was much troubled to leave his sister at this 
time, for he knew well that his companionship and 
mute sympathy were everything to her. In spite 
of the great difference in their ages, they had lived 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


291 


together in such close and understanding inter- 
course that it was almost forgotten, and the others 
for whom they had labored seemed only children. 
It was this very bond, perhaps, that had linked 
Madeleine so nearly to a brother who might have 
stood in the relation of a. father to her, that had 
made her estimate her own self at a maturer age 
than she should have done Now, for almost the 
first time, they differed in opinion, though he said 
nothing. He considered Madeleine’s sense of 
honor rather too fine, and, as he heartily liked the 
young man, he was sorry that she had sent him 
away. He was also by no means averse to the 
high connection, for, like most republicans, he had 
a latent though unacknowledged liking for a title. 
Now, at the birth of the Empire, such a thing 
meant a great deal, and it flattered his pride to 
think that his sister might rank among the old 
noblesse. Man is apt to be inconsistent. But he 
said nothing, having too high a regard for Made- 
leine’s judgment to even question it, and he knew 
her far too well to attempt to argue with her. 
When she had once made up her mind that a 
thing was right, she was accustomed to do it at 
whatever personal cost. 


292 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN 


It was just at this time that a ver}’’ strange thing 
happened to his sister. She was returning one 
day from a shopping expedition, accompanied by 
her maid, and she had turned into the Tuileries 
gardens in order to enjoy a few minutes’ rest under 
the chestnut-trees, for the day was hot, when she 
became conscious that she was being followed. A 
young girl with a pretty face, but who looked pale, 
and whose eyes were undershadowed by heavy 
lines, kept near, and she persisted in looking at 
Madeleine in such a way that it made her feel un- 
comfortable. The child was a stranger to her, but 
observing her evident distress, the former turned 
to speak. As she did so, the other fled. A few 
seconds later, however, she appeared again under 
the trees, and she still fixed that hungry, anxious 
look upon the woman she had followed, and as she 
drew near, Madeleine saw that she had been 
crying. 

“ What is the matter?” she asked gently, and 
at the soft tones of her voice, the girl’s shyness 
vanished and she stood still and did not shrink 
away. 

The gardens were almost deserted, for it was the 
hour when most persons had returned for the 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


293 


noon-day meal. One of the keepers passed along 
the shady alley sweeping the path with his broom 
made of young twigs. He paid no attention to 
them. At a little distance a few children played 
about, watched over by careful maids, and their 
white dresses made bright spots in the shadow, but 
there was no one else near. The sparrows chirped 
and fluttered among the branches or on the ground ; 
the fountains glistened and flashed in the clear 
air; the sun pierced the roof of foliage and lay in 
bright patches along the walks, and it shone in 
undiminishqd splendor in the open space beyond. 
From outside the walls of the gardens came the 
subdued but never ending rumble of traffic that 
streamed along the great thoroughfare. Therese 
sat a little apart from her mistress and looked dis- 
pleased when the stranger approached her. 

“ Oh, lady,” whispered Gabrielle, for it was she; 
and creeping closer, she knelt and caught her hand. 
” Oh, lady, you, who have so much, can surely af- 
ford to be generous. Give him back to me!” 

“What do you mean?” asked Madeleine, com- 
pletely mystified, though touched by the pleading 
in the low voice. 

“ I have looked for you day after day,” continued 


294 


UNDER 7' HE CORSICAN 


Gabrielle between her sobs. “And my father 
scolds, m)" mother even locks me in the house, but 
I have managed to escape. I cannot find him, 
and I have been searching for you also, for I meant 
to pray you to tell me where he is. You are beau- 
tiful, you are rich ; and I am poor — but I, too, 
have a heart, and I love him better than my life.” 

“Whom do you love?” asked Madeleine kindly, 
and she lay a firm hand on the hot trembling ones. 
“ I do not know your friends, and I would not 
wrong you in any way if I did.” 

“ M. d’Harcourt — M. le Marquis d’Harcourt,” 
faltered Amand’s daughter with a slight inflection 
of pride in her voice as she dwelt on the name. 

Madeleine Bertrand started, but, as the other 
continued speaking, she said nothing and waited, 
feeling convinced that she was about to hear a tale 
of wrong. 

“ He loves you,” sobbed Gabrielle, “but he used 
to love me. See, he gave me this ring, and he 
put it on my finger himself, and that means so 
much ! But now he only thinks of you. He stays 
away whole days at a time, and he has confessed 
to me that he goes to visit a friend. And after he 
returns to his room at our inn he shuts himself in, 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


295 


and at night I can see the light reflected from his 
window upon the wall on the other side of the 
street; and it burns so for hours, and I know that 
he is writing to you. And, lady, I have seen you 
walking together. I have watched you, and when 
he spoke you blushed — and his eyes said more 
than words. But even then he used to come back 
to the inn, and now he does not return and I do 
not know where to look for him. He promised to 
come, but his room remains empty; and I wait 
and wait, and still I cannot do what he has asked 
of me for I do not know the way. My father had 
business this morning in the Rue St. Honore and 
he took me with him, but as he stood near the 
apothecary’s shop on the corner, I caught sight of 
you, and I slipped away and followed you here. 
Dear lady, tell me where M. d’Harcourt has gone, 
and I will not care even if my father strikes me 
when I go home.” 

“ I know nothing of M. d’Harcourt,” said Made- 
leine, quietly, though she was startled at the girl’s 
confession. “ He is nothing to me, my child, 
and I have not seen him for many days. But, 
my dear, he is not a good friend for you to have. 
Poor girls should not learn to care for gentle- 


296 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


men ; — and, above all things, they should not fol- 
low them about. You must obey your parents 
and forget him.” Her voice had become quite 
stern. 

“ But since I have been a child he has loved 
me, dear lady. This is no new thing. For years 
he has put up at our inn; and until lately my 
father has always been pleased when M. d’Har- 
court brought me trinkets or other presents.” 

A great pity filled Madeleine’s heart, and her 
voice softened to a wonderful sweetness as she lay 
her hand on the bending head. “ Poor child,” .she 
said, and at the sound of her words Gabrielle 
buried her face in the other’s lap and wept aloud. 

Then Madeleine argued with her gently, and 
tried to show her how dangerous it was for her to 
allow herself to be so carried away by her feel- 
ings. She knew nothing, of course, of the un- 
fulfilled commission that caused the girl such 
anxiety, but saw that a mystery of some kind ex- 
isted, and she was full of concern for the young 
life. As she talked the listener’s face grew calmer 
and she became quiet; and as the realization 
dawned upon her that Anatole was not Madeleine’s 
lover after all, she felt a blessed relief and she 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


297 


heard patiently the wise counsels that the speaker 
gave her. 

“Surely you are an angel of light,” she said at 
last, and she kissed Madeleine’s hand passionately. 
“ I will go home at once, and I will try to obey my 
parents and to do as you tell me. I shall light a 
fresh candle, too, and place it before the Virgin in 
the church. Perhaps she will send me news of 
him, and then I can tell him that I have not really 
been unfaithful. I see now, mademoiselle, that 
you also are ignorant of his whereabouts. But 
God bless you, all the same, and may the saints 
bring happiness to you who have never suffered.” 

How little she knew! 

Madeleine did not answer, but she looked very 
grave. “What is best for us, will come surely, 
my child,” she said, “and remember that some- 
times the greatest love is expressed through 
renunciation. ” They were sisters in sorrow, and 
she longed to help the undisciplined child of the 
poor. “God protect you from harm, little wo- 
man,” she went on to say, “and may he keep your 
life pure and true. Pray for strength to overcome 
a love that can bring you no good. Some day I 
shall come to see you. ” 


298 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


Gabrielle rose to her feet and threw out her 
arms dramatically. “It is no use, mademoiselle; 
— it is fate. But I shall never forget you and your 
kind words.” 

Then she darted away like a frightened hare, 
and ran down the long alley beneath the trees in 
the direction of the quai beyond the garden. 
Madeleine stood and watched her sadly until she 
was out of sight, for she remembered the look of 
desperation in Gabrielle’s eyes. With a sigh she 
turned and beckoned to Therese, and then they 
both took their way home. 


CHAPTER XV. 


It was soon after the two girls had met in the 
royal gardens, that Victor’s trial took place, but 
at the time Madeleine knew nothing of it, being 
even ignorant of his arrest and imprisonment. 

The day on which he was brought to the bar to 
answer for the sins of others was dark and rainy, 
and the air was so warm that the gloomy court room 
felt close, appearing in the shadowed light more 
cheerless than ever. The heavy, soaking showers 
of early summer bring with them a promise of 
luxuriance and growth, and on the day in question 
the moist air was laden with a sweetness borrowed 
from the parks and blown down the wide stream 
of the river. As it came through the open win- 
dows it should have brought a message of hope. 

Victor’s confinement had stamped his face with 
the prison pallor, and its lines of anxiety and 
trouble made him look older, but his courage had 
never failed, and when he walked into the room 

his head was lifted and his step was as firm as 
299 


300 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


though he were on parade. A murmur of ap- 
proval greeted him, and looking to the right and 
to the left, he bowed in silent acknowledgment. 

The charges were extremely serious, for his well- 
known intimacy with d’Harcourt, and the fatal 
letters found in his own possession, told against 
him. Then, too, in damaging evidence, it was 
brought forward. that a girl supposed to be a tool 
of Anatole’s and an emissary of his, had been seen 
hanging about Victor’s lodging for days. She had 
been held and questioned, and though nothing 
could be extracted from her beyond the frantic 
desire to 'find d’Olonet and to communicate with 
d’Harcourt, her movements had seemed very sus- 
picious. She had talked vaguely, too, of old papers 
and of valuable lace, but in such contradictory 
terms that her inquisitors were inclined to think 
that she was lacking in reason, though her distress 
at not finding either of the young men was too 
genuine to be doubted. That she had been a 
messenger between them was proved conclusively 
by the discovery of the lace that was wrapped 
about the papers found on Victor’s person ; but it 
was thought likely that she had been unaware of 
the importance of what she had carried. By 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


301 


d’Olonet’s absolute refusal to divulge his friend’s 
hiding-place he further incriminated himself. 
Being an officer in the arm)’’ made his case par- 
ticularly bad, and as he had held papers dealing 
with a traitorous understanding with the English, 
it stamped him at once as one of the plotters in 
arms against the existing government in France, 
and it placed his life in jeopardy. 

Everything was done to draw from him some 
information in regard to Anatole, and the latter 
was considered so dangerous, that freedom was 
offered to Victor as the price of his friend’s be- 
trayal; but d’Olonet was firm. He reasserted his 
own perfect innocence, but the favorable impres- 
sion that he had at first produced was gone, and 
he was listened to with unwilling ears by the 
baffled and exasperated court, and the result of 
the trial was practically foreordained. The clem- 
ency lately extended to Moreau and the other 
exempted ones had apparently exhausted execu- 
tive patience. D’Olonet was only a poor little 
officer of artillery who had basely betrayed his 
flag. Why should he receive the slightest 
mercy? 

As the trial progressed, he began to realize the 


302 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


hopelessness of his case, but holding fast to the 
belief that his friend would still save him, he 
never wavered in the course that he had himself 
adopted. 

“Do you not know,” he was asked, “that to 
shield the chief culprit is in itself a crime? To 
prove your innocence he must be produced, and 
failing this you are held responsible for what the 
papers reveal. ” 

“He will come,” said Victor quietly. “I exe- 
crate the crime that he is charged with, and I am 
a loyal soldier of the Empire, but the plot has now 
come to naught and I will not bring my friend to 
destruction. When he told me where he was, he 
freely placed his life in my hands. The confidence 
was unbidden, but I cannot give him up.” 

“ And if he does not return, what will you do?” 

“ I can die,” he answered, simply. 

The sun broke through the lifting clouds, and 
its light shone on the dripping grating of the win- 
dow, and passing on fell upon the prisoner’s head. 
His eyes looked before him with a sweet stead- 
fastness and his lips never trembled, but his hand, 
as it lay on the railing before him, tightened in its 
grasp. The few watchers leaned forward, strain- 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


303 


ing their ears in the intensity of their listening, — 
and the case proceeded. 

It did not take long. Various forms were gone 
through ; a formal charge was given, and at last, 
just as had been expected, the word of doom was 
spoken, but as it fell from the lips of the presiding 
officer, a murmur of pity and of sympathy ran 
through the room. Victor looked so young and 
so brave that all were touched, and there was 
something in the gaze of his straightforward eyes 
that told more than one heart that the accused was 
guiltless. 

Through a quiet that could be almost felt, the 
words were spoken, and as the prisoner heard 
them every drop of blood drained from his face, 
though he still held his head erect and his pose 
was unchanged. Life, hope, everything was over, 
unless Anatole came, but he looked directly into 
the judge’s eyes and did not move when he heard 
his sentence. The silence was oppressive. Even 
the scratching of pens and the rustling of papers 
had ceased, but the flies buzzed through the heated 
atmosphere, and drops of rain, that came from a 
leaking gutter above, fell in staccato touches on 
the stone window-sill; and that piercing ray of 


304 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


light still fell on the proudly lifted head and white 
face. 

“You are condemned,” said the judge, “to be 
shot as a traitor at the next sunrise but one. May 
God have mercy on your soul. Amen.” 

“Amen,” repeated Victor;— and “Amen,” mut- 
tered the court. They felt that he ought to die, 
but they knew that he was a brave man. 

He was led away amid the same death-like si- 
lence, and there was hardly a dry eye in the room. 

When he found himself once more in his cell 
and alone, he sat down to think of all that there 
remained for him to do. Strange to say, his 
nerves were so highly strung by the excitement 
of the trial that for some time the details were 
blotted from his mind. 

He was to die. He kept repeating the words to 
make himself believe them. He felt his own 
warm hands and tried to understand that in a few 
short hours they would be cold and stiff. He 
noticed the genial sunshine, and he thought of the 
trees and flowers that he should never see again 
but that would go on blooming just the same. A 
bird flew by his narrow window, singing, and the 


UNDER THE CORSICAN 


305 


clear, ringing note of freedom pierced the young 
man’s heart. Then he broke down. “Ah, little 
messenger, can you not carry a word from me to 
the outer world; — to Anatole, whose perfidy lets 
me remain here to die; — to my mother and to 
my sister Antoinette; — to Madeleine, ah, Mad- 
eleine! 

“Why does not Anatole come? By this time he 
surely knows what has happened, for he was wait- 
ing for my answer and the messenger must have 
been true. Is a traitor, after all, worth this sacri- 
fice that I am making? But he saved my life, not 
once but twice; and when I was alone and ill he 
watched beside me night and day until my bright 
angel came. He will not, he cannot, desert me 
now. I will have patience, and I will still trust, 
for did he not write that he loved me better than 
his life? It is so good to live! The world is so 
fair, and Madeleine is there, ah, God!” , 

His first impulse had been to write to his 
mother, and then to his love, acquainting them 
both with his fate; but on questioning the jailer, 
he only received a tardy assurance that his letters 
could be expedited on the following day after the 

authorities had satisfied themselves that they con- 
20 


3o6 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


tained no treasonable matter; and with this he 
was forced to content himself. 

“ So that I may have Madeleine’s prayers at the 
last if deliverance does not come,” he murmured. 
“ At least, bon Dieu, grant me that. My mother 
cannot know until all is over, and when she does 
her heart will break. ” 

But while fate was apparently so hard, an un- 
expected agency was at work to bring him comfort. 

From the very first Therese, the maid, had 
viewed Victor’s unexplained departure with sus- 
picion. No word had been said to her, but she 
guessed shrewdly enough at what had happened, 
and her heart was sore for her young mistress that 
she dearly loved; and when more than a week had 
elapsed since she had opened the door for their 
once constant visitor, she became uneasy. Made- 
leine’s pale face pained her. Even Lili and the 
boys were awed into a respectful silence, and the 
former ceased her teasing and was more than 
usually affectionate to her sister. She asked no 
questions, for she felt that Madeleine’s reserve was 
sacred. Curiosity, however, got the better of her 
at last, and she and the faithful servant discussed 
the matter freely when her sister was not by. 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


307 


Encouraged and urged on by Lili, Therese at last 
determined to find out what had become of Victor, 
who, it seemed, had turned recreant. 

The way to the market led past his door, and 
one morning, soon after Isidore had left Paris by 
the Lyons coach, the woman, impelled by an in- 
definable premonition of coming evil, actually 
rang d’Olonet’s bell, in order to gossip with the 
concierge, who was well known to her since the 
days of the officer’s illness. 

The wiry, wizen-faced door-keeper looked out, 
and then pulled the cord. 

“Ah, Mademoiselle Therese,’’ he said, “eome 
in, come in. It is doubtless news of that poor young 
man that you seek. I cannot yet believe that he 
was so wicked, for his face was kind, and he 
always had a good word for every one. Come in, 
come in; my wife will be enchanted to see you.’’ 
He raised his voice and called shrilly to his 
spouse: “Come then, my dear, and tell Mademoi- 
selle Therese the sad news of our lamented lodger. 
Mon Dieu, que c'est dur, that he must be shot as a 
traitor!’’ , 

His visitor was stupefied at this news of terri- 
ble import, for she had expected nothing so seri- 


3o8 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


ous; but she kept her wits about her and managed 
to draw out by degrees the story of his arrest, 
which was told eagerly, but with such frequent 
embellishments of conjectures and regrets that it 
was difficult to obtain the actual facts, Therese 
also learned that the concierge had hung about the 
jail where Victor was confined, and had picked up 
an impression of how matters stood. No great 
mention of the affair had appeared in the papers, 
for the fate of a plotter, more or less, at this time 
was simply merged in the news that chronicled 
the end of the great conspiracy. Since Bertrand’s 
departure the daily prints had come with irregu- 
larity to his house, and no one had read of what 
had happened. When Therese had gleaned all 
that it was possible to find out, she hastened home 
to tell her mi.stress, but how imminent the danger 
was she did not know. 

She found the sisters sitting together, sewing, 
Lili occupied a bench at Madeleine’s feet, and the 
embroidery that she should have been busy upon 
lay unfinished in her hand, as she rested her head 
on the other’s knee. Her pastels and drawing- 
board stood invitingly near, but she had deserted 
her cherished work in order to bear this loved sis- 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


309 


ter company. Her own heart was full of the lat- 
ter’s woe, and she could not understand her silence. 
She wished that Madeleine would cry and lament 
now that her lover had gone. It would make 
things so much easier, for then one could speak 
about it, and it was what she would have done 
herself had she been unhappy. To be sure Lili 
was having a constant stream of rejected lovers, 
and she had “ broken her heart” many times. 
This had been Madeleine’s only love, so things 
were different after all. 

Therese should have undoubtedly broken her 
news gently, but she was so excited that she for- 
got her usual tact, and burst into the drawing- 
room, and positively exploded with her fearful 
tale. 

When Madeleine looked up to receive this re- 
port, it was with such a startled expression of 
grief and terror that the maid thought the news 
would kill her. She clasped her hands over her 
heart and gasped, as the color left her face, and 
her eyes filled with such a look of unutterable woe 
that her old nurse, and her little sister, were 
frightened. 

Lili burst out into passionate and indignant 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


3to 


wailing, but falling on her knees she took Made- 
leine’s hands within her own and gently chafed 
and kissed them, while Therese stood over her and 
crooned in a low voice, counselling courage, and 
assuring her blindly and unreasonably that all 
would yet go well. 

Madeleine hardly heard the kind words. »She 
did not even notice what they were doing to her, 
and only caught at her breath painfully in her 
effort to regain composure. Freeing her hands at 
last, she pushed back the mass of hair that had 
fallen over her forehead, and then, breaking down 
for a moment longer, she buried her face in her 
palms as she moaned: “It was I that sent him 
away, and now I am not near him.’’ She shook 
with the suppressed sobs that are so much more 
pitiful to witness than a more tearful grief ; — but 
after a few seconds she recovered herself, and rose 
to her feet,, saying with the quietness and strength 
of a great courage : “ This is no time for weeping. 

We must act.’’ 

“What can be done?’’ groaned Lili. 

“I must do it alone,’’ replied her sister, quietly, 
but in a voice that the younger girl never forgot. 
“ Isidore is away, and you and Therese are all I 


UNDER THE CORSICA N. 


311 


have to depend upon. There is not a moment to 
lose. Victor is innocent of this fearful crime, and 
is accused of it through some mistake. Now we 
must save him.” 

“ But how?” faltered the maid. “ You have no 
proof. If the trial has already taken place, it is 
hopeless, mademoiselle.” 

“Then I shall go to the Emperor!” 

With the calmness of despair, the women set 
out to endeavor to obtain more definite news of 
the young man, and to send him at least a mes- 
sage of comfort. They hurried along, the two 
sisters clinging to each other, Lili trembling, but 
the other almost cold in the strong quiet of her 
desperation ; and the servant who followed close 
behind them, perturbed and anxious, with her 
good-natured face flushed with anger as she for- 
cibly repressed the vociferations that only troubled 
her mistress. 

It was not long before what she had reported 
was confirmed; and when Madeleine learned that 
he had been already tried by court-martial, and 
that he was to be shot at sunrise the following 
morning, the news hardly came to her as a sur- 
prise, for she had nerved herself to hear anything. 


312 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


She was not permitted to see him or even to send 
him a message. 

“Has he seen a priest?” she asked, and when 
they said “ No,” she tore from her dress the roses 
that she wore. “Give them to him,” she said, 
“and tell him that a confessor shall be sent 
to-night. ” 

The jailer hesitated as the commanding-looking 
woman held the flowers out to him. “ It is 
against the rules, mademoiselle,” he said. 

“Take them,” she repeated imperiously. “I 
send no other message; — I ask no other favor.” 

“Why should I do this thing for you? It may 
cost me my place.” 

“Because,” she answered, simply, “I love him.” 

The rough man thought that he had never seen 
any one so lovely before, as he looked at her sweet 
face crowned by waving masses of chestnut hair, 
while her candid eyes shone with the fervor of a 
saint’s. There was that about her at once so pure 
and so enthralling that he could only do as he was 
bid. He raised his cap respectfully, and he took 
the flowers. 

“ vSurely, you must be his guardian angel, lady. 
He shall have the roses.” . 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


313 


Then Madeleine turned and walked away with 
her companions, and as they hastened on, she an- 
nounced that she and Lili would start for St. Cloud 
without an instant’s delay beyond what was neces- 
sary to obtain the fastest pair of horses that the 
livery -stable could produce, to carry them in a 
post-chaise to the imperial abiding-place beyond 
the city. There she would endeavor to present a 
petition to the Emperor. Therbse was too much 
stunned at this tremendous resolution, and Lili 
too absolutely frightened, to make the slightest 
objection; and both followed her will submis- 
sively. At last all was ready; and as the postilion 
cracked his whip when they started, Madeleine 
began to realize for the first time the difficulties 
of what she had undertsrken. 

It was indeed the only hope that remained; and 
she determined that she would throw herself en- 
tirely on the great man’s mercy. If she might 
approach him in no other way, she would wait at 
the gates of the palace with her petition; and 
when he drove forth she would fall on her knees 
and plead at least for time. Could she but obtain 
a respite, she felt sure that her brother with all 
his cleverness might help her on his return. 


314 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


Consequently the horses were urged forward 
until they were covered with foam, and she sat in 
the carriage almost rigid in her grief, and yet with 
every sense keenly alive. She had taken no 
thought of her appearance, and still wore her gray 
morning-gown that had become disordered, and 
her glorious locks fell loosely from their heavy 
coils and lay in bright masses on her shoulders 
and about her face. Her eyes had the brilliancy 
of fever, and her soft white hands were clasped 
so firmly together that she never noticed that 
her nails actually left their impress on them. 
The nervous strain was intense, and the awful 
dread that caused Lili to cower back against the 
cushions gave to Madeleine a look of inspiration 
that, her faithful servant declared afterward, 
had made her appear like one of the blessed 
martyrs. 

Therese stood on the sidewalk to see them off, 
her mind filled with many misgivings; and then 
she returned to the house. The boys would soon 
be at home, and she would be forced to explain 
their sisters’ errand. As the old woman busied 
herself with her work, her fingers trembled, and 
her eyes grew dim. She would have gladly given 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN 


315 


ten years of her life to have accompanied and pro- 
tected her young ladies. 

As the carriage bowled on its way, Madeleine’s 
mind worked continually, but Lili was petrified 
at the bare thought of appearing before the Em- 
peror. Her sister’s act was, to her, one of suprem- 
est daring. That was a fearful drive. It was 
more like the hunted flight experienced sometimes 
in a nightmare than an actual reality; and the 
fearful suspense made even their rapid course 
seem slow. Trees and houses flashed past, dust 
encircled the vehicle, the horses’ feet sounded 
regularly, the postilion’s voice urged them on. 
When they left the streets and passed out on the 
open way, their speed increased. On they flew 
to the utmost capacity of the animals’ endurance, 
for Victor’s life was at stake!' 

It was with deep thankfulness that the sisters 
learned, upon their arrival at St. Cloud, that Napo- 
leon had not yet driven forth ; and they hastened 
to station themselves at the gate of the park, so 
that they might intercept him as he went by. 
They stood among a group of people who waited 
to see the popular hero. Lili clung to Madeleine’s 
arm with a grasp that was painful, and incessantly 


3i6 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


invoked the Virgin and the saints, but her sister 
only smiled. “Do not fear,” she said gently. 
“ My love is as true as steel, and he is also inno- 
cent. Heaven will not desert us.” 

Napoleon appeared at last in his carriage, at- 
tended by an escort, and, as the cortege passed 
slowly out of the gate, he looked toward the gap- 
ing people. Their adulation pleased him. Made- 
leine was sufficiently conspicuous by reason of her 
unusual coloring and her dishevelled appearance 
to have attracted his notice, even had she not been 
accompanied by the pretty, weeping girl, who in 
spite of her grief had remembered to dress herself 
charmingly before leaving home. One does not 
meet the Emperor every day. But though Dili’s 
sobs had caught his ear, it was on the older woman 
that his eyes had fallen with quick appreciation, 
even before she fell on her knees crying, “ A peti- 
tion, Sire!” 

He motioned to an aide, and the carriage was 
stopped. The people strained forward to listen, 
and Madeleine’s heart almost ceased beating as 
she heard the words: “ Who are you, madam, and 
what do you desire?” 

At any other time her blood would have boiled 


UNDER THE CGRSICAN. 


317 


at his impertinent stare, for Bonaparte’s coarse 
admiration for beautiful women was well known, 
and often intolerable ; but now she was oblivious 
of self, and rose quickly to approach the door of 
his conveyance, saying in a low voice: “All 
power is in your hands. Sire. I only beg for 
mercy.” 

“And by Heaven! what is it that you want? 
Let it be anything but grace for one of those ac- 
cursed conspirators.” 

“Justice tempered with mercy is one of the most 
august attributes of Majesty,” she said boldly. “ I 
ask for clemency for one whom I hope to prove 
innocent.” 

She looked at him bravely, and for the first time 
a faint tinge of color came into her face. She 
still held the paper as she waited. 

“ By my faith, you have courage. Suppliants 
are not apt to dictate when they ask for mercy.” 
His voice was stern, but his eye rested approvingly 
on her, and his gaze was less insolent when he 
spoke again. “ But you are beautiful enough, 
madam, for me to forgive your presumption. 
Give me your paper.” 

Instead of keeping it for future attention, the 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


318 


great man unfolded the sheet at once. Madeleine 
had hardly hoped for this. 

There was a moment of breathless suspense. 
The summer breeze rustled caressingly through 
the trees, and the June sky above was as pure and 
smiling as though it only looked down on peace 
and joy, and not upon a breaking heart. Made- 
leine stood like a statue in her place. Her hands 
were clasped with desperate firmness, and she did 
not notice that the wind blew her locks about her 
face — but as the light fell on them, they glistened 
like Danae’s gold, and all who saw them won- 
dered. With her head bent slightly forward, and 
with her whole soul looking out of her eyes as she 
fastened them on the arbitrator of Victor’s fate, 
and with parted lips, she waited. Lili knelt be- 
hind her on the turf and watched with uplifted, 
imploring gaze. 

Napoleon glanced at the paper and frowned. 
“Another one of the brood to be stamped out,” he 
said. “Who are you?” he added roughly, “that 
you have a right to ask this thing? Why should I 
spare this d’Olonet?” 

“Because, Sire, he is a loyal and an innocent 
man. I pledge my word for it, and I hope to 


UNDER THE COR SICA jV. 


319 


prove it if time is granted. There has been a 
frightful mistake. The d’Olonets have always 
been brave and true, — besides ” 

“And besides?” asked the Emperor gravely as 
he fixed his penetrating eyes upon her. 

“ Besides, I love him.” It was the second time 
that day that she had used the same words, and 
now also they had their effect. 

“ Mademoiselle,” said Napoleon, “both for your 
goodness and for your beauty you deserve to be 
happy. We wish that we could grant your prayer 
unconditionally, but even you will allow that our 
authority must be sustained ; and were such con- 
spirators to go unpunished, the Empire itself 
would be in peril. Such clemency as we have to 
bestow is yours. The case is well known to me, 
and I cannot doubt d’Olonet’s participation in the 
plot. His fate is sealed and to-morrow morning 
he is to die; but we will give him one more 
chance. If he will deliver to us the leader of the 
plot, his own freedom is assured. This he has 
already refused to do, but should he reconsider his 
decision at the last moment even, he shall be re- 
stored to your arms. A courier shall ride at once 
to Paris with these orders. On your own return 


320 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


you shall visit your lover in his cell. See that 
you reason with him effectually, but remember 
that if our offer is refused again, the law goes into 
effect. En aimit !" 

He sank back in his seat, and as the postilions 
touched the horses with their cracking whips, he 
heard her bell-like voice repeating: 

“ Sire, the d’Olonets have always been both 
brave and true !” 

Back to the great city over the dusty roads, back 
to her home with a sorrow in her heart that was 
too deep for utterance, though a superhuman 
courage filled her heart. That was all that there 
was left for Madeleine to do, and as she and Lili 
were hastened back over the way they had come, 
she counted each one of the precious moments as 
they passed from Victor’s last day on earth, for 
she told herself proudly that he would never be- 
tray his trust. She did not yet clearly understand 
all the details of the affair, but she knew that his 
life hung upon his own word and that he would 
not reveal what had been confided to him. She 
believed in him absolutely, and she knew that he 
was incapable of any act that could reflect upon 
his stainless honor. Hope was over, and she must 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


321 


now help him through the last terrible ordeal, and 
then, — ah, well, then she would live out her 
widowed life, dwelling ever on the recollection of 
the past, and thanking God always for the blessed 
happiness of a few short weeks. 

It was late when they at last reached Paris, and 
they heard the horses’ feet clatter over the pave- 
ment. The street lamps burned fitfully, and the 
lack of moon made the night dark. Overcome 
with excitement, Lili lay back exhausted in the 
carriage, and could with difficulty be aroused 
when they reached their destination ; but Made- 
leine’s faculties had never been clearer, and she 
went about what she had to do, quickly, though 
with a set, white face. Victor’s letter awaited 
her, and for the first time she learned clearly and 
in detail of what he was accused. She .sat motion- 
less beside the table thinking, and the lamp-light 
showed the firm, clear characters that were indica- 
tive of a hand that had not trembled. At first, as 
she read, her soul was filled with abhorrence for 
d’Harcourt, but Victor’s words, “ He has saved my 
life, and, if possible, he will yet come,” touched 
her, and she paused to consider. Each second 
of time was of priceless worth, but reflection 


322 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


might save much in the end. As the only reward 
of her careful patience came the remembrance of 
her meeting with Gabrielle, and she thought of 
the latter’s frantic search for d'Harcourt. Com- 
pletely mystified, her old shrinking returned with 
intensified force, and she told herself that he would 
not come. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


Victor remained in a state of shock and bewil- 
derment on the day we left him, though his main 
purpose was unchanged. Uppermost in his 
thoughts was the remembrance of his mother and 
Madeleine, but he had not the consolation of 
knowing whether his first letters had gone. He 
sat down and tried to write again, his best comfort 
being to bring himself into communication with 
those he loved so dearly. The soft air wafting 
through his bars was laden with the sweetness of 
early summer, and he thought longingly of the 
freedom of the beautiful world without his prison. 
Was Madeleine at home, or was she already in the 
charming retreat beside the forest? Where would 
his letter find her? Was she thinking of him? 
His heart beat wildly. His blood was young and 
warm, and it flowed through his veins with eager 
strength. Had he been only saved from his long 
illness and from a reckless life to succumb to a 
terrible fate? The scalding tears rushed to his 

323 


324 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


eyes as he folded his arms on the table and leaned 
his head upon them. 

A creaking of the door at last caused him to look 
up, and his jailer entered to place before him a 
bunch of blood-red roses. 

“A message from Madeleine,” d’Olonet mur- 
mured, and he pressed them to his lips and lis- 
tened while the man told him how they had been 
left by a young lady who had given no name. 
” She was tall and very pale, and her hair had 
shone like a glory when the light touched it, and 
her eyes were clear as a mountain brook.” 

“Madeleine, Madeleine,” whispered the poor 
prisoner, “ you have helped me to live ; now you 
shall teach me how to die.” 

As the day wore on he wrote to her and to his 
mother, and he passed the hours as men are wont 
to pass them when they know that they are their 
last on earth. But one interruption came. This 
was when the officer entered late in the day, 
bringing the final proposal of which the Emperor 
had spoken ; but he gave no hint of Madeleine’s in- 
tercession. This brought back all Victor’s strength 
again, and he absolutely refused to listen. “You 
ask of me my friend’s life as the price of my own,” 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


325 


he said. “ That can never be. Now that I know 
his crime, I loathe it, but I cannot betray him. 
Vive r Empereur !” 

He folded his arms and leaned against the wall 
of his cell. 

“These are not the days of Dionysius,” said 
the messenger persuasively. “ Damon waits, but 
Pythias will not come. Think again.” 

But d’Olonet only shook his head. “ I can trust 
him,” he replied. 

“You are a noble friend,” said the officer, “a 
veritable Bayard for chivalry. D’Harcourt is not 
worth the sacrifice. Monsieur, I salute you!” 
Raising his hand to his head he departed. 

Left to himself once more, the prisoner paced 
the floor incessantly as he thought and waited, 
oppressed and crushed by the terrible strain he 
was undergoing, though he was still upheld by a 
Heaven-sent strength. It must have been with 
some such spirit of self-sacrifice and devotion that 
martyrs went to the stake of old. When the light 
faded away, he threw himself on his cot. The 
confessor was to come at midnight, and Victor 
meant to rest until then. Exhausted by all he 
had gone through, he sank into a troubled sleep. 


326 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


but when he heard the door open once more, he 
started into instant wakefulness and rose to his 
feet. 

He could hardly believe his own eyes when the 
portal swung back heavily on its hinges, and he 
saw behind the venerable priest who entered in 
advance, two women following him. They wore 
long, dark cloaks, and their heads were bent. 
The wild hope that sprang into d’Olonet’s heart 
at that instant made it stand still. What he fan- 
cied he saw was so unexpected that he staggered 
and placed his hand on the table behind him for 
support. As the taller of the advancing figures 
came within the range of the light that streamed 
from the lantern held high by the guard who ac- 
companied the party, Victor perceived that it was 
indeed his beloved Madeleine who had come; 
and her features, pure and strong as an angel’s, 
were lighted up with a faith that was unquench- 
able as they were turned toward him. “ Was it a 
dream?” he asked himself in that first second of 
glad surprise; but the next instant he was holding 
her in his arms, and he felt her warm kisses on 
his face, and he was conscious of the tender hands 
that stroked back his hair, and he heard the gen- 


Under the corsican. 


327 


tie voice that whispered : “ I have come to you, 
my love, my life, never to leave you again.” 

At first she did not even seem to notice how 
haggard and worn he had become; they simply 
clung together in the ecstasy of their reunion, and 
she caressed and soothed him, and he held her in 
an embrace that knew no parting. 

At last he turned respectfully to greet the father 
who accompanied her, and to extend a word of 
greeting to Lili, who looked heart-broken, and 
who murmured incoherent assurances of her faith 
in Victor, and begged his forgiveness for her tor- 
menting ways. 

“ Child, you did not understand,” he said gently. 
He felt as though he were older than she by a 
whole lifetime. 

Then Madeleine went on to say softly: “Listen 
to me, Victor, for each moment is precious. I am 
here now to stay with you until the end. I have 
won the Emperor’s permission to do so. After- 
ward, I shall carry my great love for you in this 
poor heart of mine until life shall cease. Make 
me your wife, my beloved. Good Father Eustace 
will join us together in the holy sacrament of mar- 
riage to-night. Then I shall have a right to 


328 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


mourn for you as I will ; and I can also go to 
your mother, and tell her all, and comfort her. 
Surely she will forgive me when we weep together. 
After that I shall wait with longing for death to 
come and free me so that I may join you in 
Paradise. ” 

They both fell on their knees before the ad- 
vancing priest, and Victor exclaimed: 

“ Madeleine, you have made death almost wel- 
come!” 

The solemn night passed away. Humble con- 
fession, absolution bestowed, and the administra- 
tion of the last rites of the Church, marked its 
hours; but before the final sacred offices took 
place, that strange, sad ceremony of marriage was 
performed within the very shadow of the valley of 
death. 

Had such a scene ever been witnessed before? 
The venerable man leaned over the young people 
as he joined them together on the brink of the 
grave, and his eyes grew tender, and his voice 
trembled, as he spoke the solemn consecrating 
words that made them one.' Lili knelt beside her 
sister and murmured an awe-struck “Amen;” and 
even the guards uncovered their heads and wiped 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


329 


their eyes. Victor stood calmly beside his bride, 
and his hand was perfectly steady when he placed 
his own ring upon her finger; but her strength be- 
gan to fail her at last and she leaned against him 
for support, and was glad when his protecting arm 
closed around her. The stone-floored cell was but 
dimly lighted by the solitary lantern, as the patri- 
archal priest bent over the two young creatures 
whose deathly pallor and intensely moved faces 
he never forgot. The man’s was full of strength, 
the woman’s of absolute trust. In the imperfect 
light the guards filled up the background of the 
pathetic picture with their strong lines; and, 
crushed and broken like a drooping flower, Lili 
sank lower as she knelt, and lifted up a pitiful, ap- 
pealing countenance as she joined in the prayers. 
The words fell slowly from the father’s lips, and 
each syllable rang with a note of help and comfort 
to the sorely tried hearts, and each vow set a seal 
upon a love that could not die. When all was 
over, Victor lifted his wife from her knees and 
clasped her in his embrace before he placed her 
hand in Lili’s. 

“ Little sister,” he said, “ be good to her always. 
I leave her to you as a precious legacy. ” 


330 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


The religious duties all performed, he led Made- 
leine at last to the window, and pointed to where 
the first faint streak of morning showed in the 
east. 

“ It is nearly time,” he whispered, “but I fear 
nothing.” 

Hand in hand they sat upon his narrow bed and 
waited, waited as the loud ticking of his watch 
told of the passing time, waited as the light on the 
floor broadened and the gloom of night dis- 
appeared, waited as the distant sounds through 
the long corridors told of the coming day. The 
father still knelt before an improvised altar and 
repeated his prayers; and Victor’s eyes were fixed 
on the crucifix and his lips moved, but he held 
Madeleine’s hand firmly in his own, and he lis- 
tened to her dear voice as at intervals she whis- 
pered words of love and of courage, and hope in 
the world beyond. Not a tear was shed, not a 
faltering word was spoken. Even Lili remained 
silent, struck dumb by her grief. 

Broader and brighter became the light, and 
approaching, resounding steps gave warning that 
the hour had come. 

In a moment the door was opened quickly, and 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


331 


the newly united couple rose to their feet, while 
Victor threw his strong arm about his wife whose 
head rested on his shoulder; and both waited, 
pale, and calm, and firm. 

The priest’s entreating voice was heard: “ From 
sin and sorrow, and from an unbelieving death : 
good Lord, deliver them!” 

But instead of a dreary party of jailers and 
assistants, an officer booted and spurred, and 
dusty from a hurried ride, entered with the guard. 
Flecks of foam from his horse still lay undried 
upon his uniform, and he was flushed with the 
violent exercise when he was ushered in. 

“Monsieur le Comte d’Olonet!” he cried in a 
ringing voice that the stone walls caught and flung 
back again in joyous utterance: 

“ Monsieur le Comte d’Olonet, I bring you your 
release. D’Harcourt has given himself up!” 

Then Madeleine reeled and fainted dead away. 

Joy never kills. When the glad morning sun 
was high in the heavens and the light of a glori- 
ous day shone over Paris, Madeleine found herself 
safely seated in the conservatory at home beneath 
the red rose-vine; and beside her stood her hus- 


332 


UNDER THE COR S/CAN. 


band with a new-born earnestness in his face; and ' 
as he laid his hand upon her shining hair, he said 
gravely : 

“ Our real life is but just beginning, Madeleine. 
We must always keep it brave and true.” 

Beyond, in the drawing-room, Lili, in the ex- 
uberance of her joy and her relief, played a trium- 
phant march upon the harpsichord, but the others’ 
happiness was too chastened a one for such 
demonstrations, and the sound only jarred upon 
them. 

Xhe one drawback to the bliss before them lay 
in the knowledge of Anatole’s fate, for, in spite of 
all, Victor loved him. They heard afterwards 
that when it came, he died as he had lived, reck- 
lessly, but bravely. In the full conviction of 
the righteousness of his cause, he went to his 
doom as though martyred. When his eyes 
were to be bound, he refused to have it done. 
“I am not afraid to look death in the face,” he 
said. 

So perished one of the old race. As its repre- 
sentative he showed a strange mixture of vice and 
of bravery, as well as of qualities that under hap- 
pier circumstances might have been trained into 


UNDER THE CORSICAN. 


333 


virtues. To the last he was a Royalist and a gen- 
tleman. Requiescat m pace. 

One morning shortly after his execution, the 
body of a young girl was drawn from the Seine. 
She was almost a child in appearance, but life to 
her had already lost its charm. Within her dress 
was found a seal-ring bearing the d’Olonet arms, 
and it lay over her heart. It was Antoinette’s 
pledge to Anatole, and his to the inn-keeper’s 
daughter, but no one knew it. 

“ Tiens !” remarked a passer as he paused to look 
at the white face. “ This is Gabrielle, the child 
of Gourtain of the Sapin Vert ! What can have 
brought her to such an end?” 

“ I know,” replied another sagely as he held up 
the ring. “ This comes of playing with gentlemen 
who mean no good to a poor girl. She has died 
of grief!” 

“The ring is of evil omen,” said the first, and 
seizing it, he flung it far out into the river, and as 
it disappeared from sight the last trace of Ana- 
tole’s plot vanished. 


THE END. 



COPYRIGHT AND MISCELLA- 
NEOUS PUBLICATIONS ISSUED 


BY J. SELWIN TAIT & SONS 


What One Woman Thinks. 

Essays of Haryot Holt Cahoon. Wi^.' frontispiece. 
Edited by Cynthia M. Westover. i2mo, cloth, gilt 
top, $1.25. 

A series of brilliant essays which no household should be without. The charm of 
this gifted author’s personality is perceptible in every line. 

“ It is because these various essays are so unstudied, are so natural, and have 
nothing foreign in their sentiment that one likes them so well. An essentially 
American woman is here writing for us.” — New York Times. 

“These essays are a judicious combination of thought and expression. They treat 
of homely matters chiefly, and reveal a true woman. . . . The collaboration is 
a pleasing success, both from a literary and moral point of view.” 

— The Churchman. 

“This series of brilliant essays make a volume of intense interest, dealing both 
with people and things. The marked personality of this gifted author is shown 
throughout the book ; clean-cut versatility and depth of thought are constantly 
apparent. . . . Everybody should read these essays.” — Boston Times. 

“ The sketches are to be commended for their concise and pleasant manner of 
saying what is to be said directly and without unnecessary circumlocution. They 
are pointed, witty, and in most cases just. . . . One of the best is an early one, 

‘ What Shall I Say to Peggy? ’ ” — Chicago Times. 

" You cannot read beyond page seven without a touch of the throat paralysis that 
is akin to tears. . . . ‘ Infinite riches in a little room.’ ” 

— New York Telegram. 

Tavistock Tales. 

By Gilbert Parker, author of “ The Chief Factor,” etc., 
and others. Illustrated. i2mo, cloth, $1.25. Paper, 50c. 

Mr. Gilbert Parker’s talent is very conspicuous in this work, and the same may be 
said of the other authors. Each story rivals the other in dramatic force and skill in 
treatment. No better book for the holidays can be imagined. 


TAVISTOCK TAl^ES— Continued. 


“ The best of taste has been shown in the selection of these stories. . . . We 
know of few short stories more impressive than Gilbert Parker’s ‘ The March of 
the White Guard.’ ” — New York Times. 

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tent artists, in black and white.” — Boston Beacon. 

“ A volume full of power and pathos, dealing with great struggles in the lives of 
mankind, they have the virtue of being intensely human. . . . Together they 
form a delectable feast of pleasing variety.”— Opinion. 

“ One of the most entertaining volumes of short stories of the season, because of 
their variety and strength. . . . ‘ The March of the White Guara ’ is by far 
the strongest and most dramatic.” — Boston Times. 

“ A book that cannot be too highly commended.” 

— Commercial Bulletin. Minneapolis. 

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where the family contains young people.” — Kansas City Journal. 

“ A cool, refreshing volume for summer reading is ‘ Tavistock Tales.’ . . . 
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Told by the Colonel. 

By W. L. Alden. Illustrated. i2mo, cloth, $1.25. Paper, 50c 

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could work the qualifying adjective as does Mr. Alden.” — New York Times. 

“ His humor is clean and enjoyable.” — Boston Times. 

“ Everyone will enjoy the sketches, which are sure to provoke a hearty laugh.” 

— Boston Courier. 

“ The stories have considerable breadth. Former readers of the New York Times 
who revelled in the humor of W. L. Alden will hail the appearance of this new 
volume.” — Chicago Tribune. 

“ Here’s a good antidote for the blues. If a sick or melancholy person should 
secure a copy he would soon be a cured man.” — Burlington Hawk Eye. 

“ Mr. Alden’s humor produces the happy effect of good wine.” 

— Philadelphia Inquirer. 

“ The whole will serve very well as a prescription for any one suffering with an 
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derived from the book.” — Boston Herald. 

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ing.” — New Orleans Picayune. 

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Twain.” — Evening Bulletin, Philadelphia. 

“ Mr. Alden is a born humorist, and his book ought to heighten the joy of the 
nations.” — N. Y. Recorder. 

“Stories like these of Mr. Alden’s affect the mental appetite after the manner of a 
piquant sauce. . . . The ‘ ridiculous ’ power of the whole list of stories is won- 
derful.” — Boston Ideas. 



who is the Man? 


By J. Selwin Tait, author of “My Friend Pasquale,” 
“The Neapolitan Banker,” etc. Illustrated. i2mo, cloth, 
$1.25. 

" The reader’s interest is held spellbound from the beginning of the book to its 
close, and the mystery of the volume deepens with every page until the final solu- 
tion comes upon him with a shock of startled surprise. The bull fight on the plain 
and subsequent duel are as thrilling as the chariot race in ‘ Ben Hur,’ ancf the 
interest is never allowed to flag.” — Recorder. 

” A story which, from the opening pages to the last chapter, creates and holds the 
reader's eager interest.” — Philadelphia Inquirer. 

“ A well-sustained story of the concealment and discovery of the authorship of 
crime. The action opens in Wyoming Territory but is continued and concluded 
on the Scottish border. The plot is thoroughly natural, and the narrative is vig- 
orous and engrossing.” — The Congregationalist. 


My Friend Pasquale. 

By J. Selwin Tait, author of “Who is the Man?” 

“The Neapolitan Banker,” etc. i2mo, cloth, $1.00. 

“ The most noteworthy of the stories in this volume is the first, bearing the plain 
unpromising superscription ‘My Friend Pasquale.’ A most remarkable, and we 
might say a most brilliant, attempt to illustrate the wide range of the human im- 
agination. The little plot has been most naturally and unaffectedly laid and faith- 
fully conducted to a rather eccentric close. . . . The story is absorbingly fas- 
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close.” — Public Opinion. 


The Lost Trader ; 

Or, the Mystery of the “Lombards.” By Henry 
F RITH. 1 2mo, cloth, illuminated cover. F our illustrations. 

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“ A healthy and stirring romance of the sea.” — Philadelphia Press. 

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“ A capital story of marine adventures. Pirates, slave-traders, mutineers, desert 
islands, shipwrecks, sea-fights, and hidden treasures are Mr. Frith’s paraphernalia 
and he makes full use of them all. The book will be a delight to boys.” 

— Charleston News and Courier. 

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cover to cover.” — Philadelphia Record. 

“ Most picturesquely bound and well illustrated. One of the books the uprising 
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The Bedouin Girl. 

By Mrs. S. J. HiGGiNSON, author of “A Princess of Java.” 
Illustrated with 5 original drawings by Steeple Davis. 
i2mo, cloth, with appropriate design, $1.25. 


“ ‘ The Bedouin Girl ’ is a striking story. Mrs. Higginson is one of the few white 
women who have journeyed with the Haj-Caravan on its holy pilgrim^e, and she 
has done other strange feats of traveling which are seldom indulged in by Amer- 
ican women, though English women frequently attempt them. . . . The story 
is decidedly original and has local color not usual in Oriental tales written by out- 
side barbarians. . . . The description of the Pilgrimage from Bagdad seems to 
me capital and realistic. Not quite as gorgeous and lurid as that of the passing of 
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“ The Bedouin girl is a beautiful little thing and clever, and is quite a new character 
ill the stories 01 these yiw de siecle days. Her escapes are well told, and there is a 
decided humorous touch about the woman Ayeba who curled herself into a ball 
and rolled in the sand when her husband Metaah began to kick and beat her. 

Mrs. Higginson has written to entertain, and the unusual characters and scenes of 
her story will accomplish that object. The book makes a new ripple upon the sea 
of literature.”— Jeannette Gilder in The Chicago Tribune. 


Out of Reach. 

By Esme Stuart. i2mo, cloth, illuminated cover. Four 
illustrations. 

" A perfectly beautiful story for older girls, by Esm6 Stuart, well remembered 
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“ A romantic tale which touches a bit the atmosphere of the weird, but which is in 
itself not the least so, being brisk and vigorous throughout. . . . The idea of 
the story is excellent and it is strongly handled. . . . Parts of it are very sweet, 
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the story, with all its romantic resources, developed amid a specially fruitful 
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“ ' Out of Reach,’ by Esir.6 Stuart, is for a young girl what a novel by Mr. Grant 
Allen might be for her mother. . . . The book is entertaining and rather unus- 
ual in character.” — Literary World. 


Black, White, and Gray. 

By Amy Walton. With 4 illustrations. Illuminated 
cover. i2mo, cloth. 

A story of three homes. An excellent story for children. 

” It is to be recommended heartily to all who want something innocent and pleas, 
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across such a natural, sensible story so pleasantly told .” — Literary World. 

" It contains a wealth of sympathetic touches that will make each child who reads 
It more reflective and thoughtful in her intercourse with other boys and girls.” 

—Boston Herald. 


Memoirs of Anne C. L. Botta. 

Written by her friends. With selections from her corres- 
pondence and from her writings in prose and poetry. 
Edited by Professor Vincenzo Botta. A limited edition, 
printed on Holland paper, with gilt top and untrimmed 
edges. Engraved portrait of Mrs. Botta. Cloth, 8vo, 
475 pages, $3.50. 

“ An extraordinary tribute and one that could not have been called forth by any 
ordinary character. Mr. James Anthony Froude, Mr. Parke Godwin, Mrs. Julia 
Ward Howe, Mr. E. C. Stednian, Mr. Charles Dudley Warner, Miss Kate Field, 
Miss Kate Sanborn, Mr. John Bigelow, Miss Edith M. Thomas, Mr. Richard 
Watson Gilder, Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge, Mr. Moucure D. Conway, Mr. Justin 
McCarthy, and many more, have contributed these memoirs .” — The New York Sun. 
“ The volume recently edited by Professor Botta, in memory of his wife, . . . 
will have an ennobling and uplifting effect upon all who read it, by reason of the 
picture it presents of an ideally beautiful life. We commend this symposium to 
the consideration of those ladies who are ambitious to emulate the fame of those 
of their sex whose names have become historical as the creators of salons.” 

— The Home Journal. 

“There is a touching charm about many of these memoirs; they glow with the 
splendor of lofty and real attachment, and they pulsate with generous and respon- 
sive life as do hearts. . . . For nearly two generations Mrs. Botta was a con- 
spicuous force and figure in the social and intellectual life of this city. When she 
died Julia Ward Howe remarked, ‘All her friends remain her debtors.’ . . . 
Andrew D. White quotes Horace Greeley, who said : ‘Anne Lynch is the best 
woman that God ever made.’ . . . Froude declares that while he lives he cau 

never cease to remember her. . . . Charles A. Peabody will remember her ‘ as 

a benefactor so long as memory shall continue to serve me.’ ” — New York Times. 
“ The volume of memoirs which her husband has edited is a lasting and impres- 
sive monument to her memory, builded by many hands and adorned with the affec- 
tionate and loving utterances of scores of distinguished persons who regret her 
loss. . . . The memoirs are most handsomely printed on heavy rou^-edged 
paper, and are embellished with a portrait of Mrs. Botta in ‘ the flower of her old 
age.’ ” — New York Mail and Express. 

“ Mrs. Botta was a woman of acute intellectual insight and a most charming char- 
acter. Her presence acted as a powerful stimulus in developing the social talents 
of others, and her ‘evenings’ were a recognized institution in New York, where 
the best writers, poets, and artists of the tune attended these popular receptions. 
It was at one of these that Poe gave the first reading of the ‘ Raven.’ Emerson, 
Bryant, Irving, Bancroft, Bayard Taylor, Dr. Bellows, the Carey sisters, Horace 
Greeley, H. W. Beecher, Edwin Booth, Froude, Proctor, Charles Kingsley, 
Matthew Arnold, Lord Houghton, and other prominent people attended Mrs. 
Botta’s receptions, and happy recollections of these social gatherings animate the 
portion of this memorial contributed by her friends. ... A portrait of Mrs. 
Botta taken late in life explains what Edmund Clarence Stedman said of her; 

‘ Her grace, her personal charm, her gift of perpetual youth, were those of an ideal 
womanhood.’ It is a stimulating book.”— Ledger, Philadelphia. 

“ This book, commemorating a good, wise, and lovable woman, is hardly a biog- 
raphy, though the course of a beneficent life may be traced in its pages. . . . 
It is an enviable testimony to the beauty of Mrs. Botta’s character and the worth of 
her brains that these chapters set forth. . . . What she seemed to one among 

the many foreigners of distinction, who have tested her hospitality in later years, 
is set forth in this passage from a letter written bv Mr. Froude: ‘ I have known 
many interesting women in my life, but about her there was a peculiar grace which 
I have never seen in any other person. She had brilliant gifts, yet she never 
seemed to know that she had any gifts at all. 

“ I was introduced into Mrs. Bofta’s salon forty-four years ago, either by Dr. Rufus 
Wilmot Griswold or by Mr. Bayard Taylor. Mrs. Bott!!, who was then Miss Anne 
Charlotte Lynch, was known to me before the date I have specified through her 
poems in Graham’s Magazine and other periodicals. . . . To meet this accom- 

plished gentlewoman was a distinction, since in meeting her one met her friends, 
the least of whom was worth knowing. . . .” 

— Richard Henry Stoddard in The Independent. 


The Gist of Whist. 

By Charles E. Coffin. Pocket i2mo, red edges, cloth, 
75 cents ; flexible leather, red edges, $i.oo. 

“ A valuable addition to whist literature, and must be greatly appreciated by all 
lovers of the intellectual game. . . . The author has examined all the standard 

authorities, and presented the gist of the whole subject in the least possible com- 
pass, and in the most interesting and complete and comprehensive form.” 

— Evening Post, Burlington, Iowa. 

“ A clever and thoroughly practical manual.” — Philadelphia Ledger. 

“A book to be bought, read, and cherished forever.” — Providence Sunday Journal. 

‘ Presents the chief features of the game in a strong and simple way.” 

— Boston Advertiser. 

“ Simple and direct in statement. The laws and leads are made clear in condensed 
and practical form.” — Boston Times. 

“ ‘ The Gist of Whist ’ meets a long-felt requirement. ... In its one hundred 
pages are contained concise, readable, and comprehensive instructions of the 
game, under such practical heads as Fundamental Principles, American Leads, 
Conventional Plays, and Practical Precepts. . . . The whole is in just the shape 

for informative reading or quick reference. The binding, too, is dainty indeed 
and of itself sufficient to make one desire its possession.” — Boston Ideas. 

“ A perfect hand manual of this king of card games ; contains the essence of all the 
best guide books on the subject, including the improved method of American leads 
and a complete glossary of the common and technical terms, to which is added 
‘ The Laws of Whist ’ as revised at the Third American Whist Congress. 

‘ Know the leads and when to make them. 

Know the tricks and when to take them. 

Know the rules and when to break them. 

Know the laws and ne’er forsake them.’ 

“ Beginners and moderate players at whist need to have the information of the 
game presented to them in an entertaining manner in order to awaken interest and 
encourage them to oroceed. 

“ I believe ‘ The Gist of Whist ’ will possess this characteristic in a marked degree, 
judging from the advance sheets which I have seen. It is bright in style, and 
presents the chief features of the game in a strong, simple way. 

All maxims and tables of leads follow the latest and best authorities, so that the 
work is entirely reliable ; and it is broad and comprehensive enough to graduate 
good players.”— Cassius M. Paine, Editor of Whist. 


Barrack-room Ballads and Other Verses. 

By Rudyard Kipling, author of “ Mine Own People,” 
“Soldiers Three,” etc. i2mo, cloth, $i.oo; paper, 50 
cents. 

” These poems are full of dramatic vigor, crisp, terse, witty, and entertaining. 
Those entitled ‘The Betrothed,’ ‘You May Choose Between Me and Your Cigar ’ 
remind one of Bret Harte or Thackeray, and are alone worth the price of the book.” 


The Woman of the Iron Bracelets. 

By Frank Barrett, author of “ Kitty’s Father,” “Olga’s 
Crime,” etc. i2mo, cloth, $1.00. Paper, 50c. 

“In every way an excellent story. A well-balanced, charming work of fiction, 
^lean and bright .” — Boston Times. 


Cosmopolis. 


By Paul Bourget. Authorized edition ; handsomely 
illustrated by A. Casarin, a pupil of Meissonier. Large 
i2rno, cloth, gilt, $1.50. Paper {not illustrated), 50 cents. 


“ A work of extraordinary power and deep interest.” — Philadelphia Bulletin. 

“ Rourget has given us a series of portraits which are elaborated and re- 
fined. . . . ‘Cosmopolis ’ is an admirable piece of portraiture in all ways.” 

— New York Tribune. 


The Curb of Honor. 

By M. Betham-Edwards, author of “The Romance of 
a French Parsonage.” i2mo, cloth, $1.00. Paper, 50c. 

A romantic story of the Pyrenees, that peculiar French atmosphere with which 
that talented author alone of English writers can endow a picture of French life. 

“ With many and effective descriptions of scenery in the Pyrenees this story of the 
French and Spanish border line runs along very pleasantly.” — The Independent. 

“ Grandly clear-cut is this story, harmoniously true and deeply strong. A gem cut 
from Nature’s very heart, rather than from her clothing.” — Boston Ideas. 

“ This story is well told and is not commonplace.” — Telegram. 

“ The author shows a man, yet one full of inspiration, genius, and wit ; and his 
great love for the waif of the storm, Eldred Eden, is exquisitely portrayed. ‘ The 
Curb of Honor ’ will add to the author’s name and fame.” — Boston Times. 

“ Miss Betham-Edwards’s new book contains some excellent descriptions of Py- 
renean scenery and of life in one of the remote mountain valleys on the borderland 
between France and Spain. Miss Betham-Edwards has made French Protestant 
parsonages quite a specialty of her own, and turns them to very pleasant use.” 

— Athenaum. 

“ The pictures of French life and scenery are fine. They belong to a field in which 
the author excels.” — Daily News, Denver. 


Mrs. Clift-Crosby’s Niece. 

By Ella Childs Hurlbut. i2mo, cloth, $1.00. Paper, 25c. 

This is an exceedingly piquant society novel. It abounds in striking passages, 
and its easy, unbroken style makes its reflection of fashionable life singularly faith-, 
fu! and clear. It is rare, indeed, that fashionable New York finds so gifted an 
illustrator as Mrs. Hurlbut. 

“ It is a fascinating society novel of the fin de .yzVc/c type. The stopr is really brill- 
iant at limes, with a finished, terse style that is singularly true, in detail, to the 
fashionable life that it describes.” — Boston Times, 

“ The book is a picture of New York life ; the story is well painted ; clearly, 
smoothly, cleverly.” — Boston Ideas. 

“ New York fashionable society is the subject in general and the career of Mrs. 
Clift-Crosby’s niece the theme in particular of the present issue. Skimming 
lightly over the surface of life with an occasional peep into its depths, i( depicts 
various phases of ‘ swelldom,’ including a love affair with a French count and all 
the necessary adjuncts. This story will doubtless interest the summer reader. 

■' •' —Public Opinion. 

“ Mrs. Hurlbut has given us an interesting picture of contemporary fashionable 
New York Society and has told the story of the crossed love of a wayward but 
very attractive and very real girl. The conception and the style of the author are 
genuinely artistic.” — Rewiew of Reviews. 


The Celebrated ‘‘Pseudonym” Library. 

A daintily bound and printed long i6mo pocket edition of 
the best new fiction. Cloth bound, gilt top, 50 cents per 
volume. 

Every work in this world-renowned series is a literary gem, and the volumes 
themselves are specially adapted in size, appearance, and quality for boudoir or 
drawing-room use. 


Vol. I. MAKAR’S DREAM. 

This is the tale of the dream which poor Makir dreamt on Christmas Eve — the very 
Makir who is mentioned by the Russian proverb as the step-child of Fate. The 
story is in turn weird, uncanny, and entrancing, and it holds the reader with won- 
derful fascination. Once read it will never be forgotten. 


Vol. II. HERB OF LOVE. Translated from the 
Greek by Eliz. M. Edmonds. 

This is a fascinating story of Greek peasant life, introducing a couple of gypsy 
characters and relieving them against the stolid and superstitious Greek peasantry 
with strong effect. 


Vol. III. HEAVY LADEN. Translated from the 
German by Helen A. Macdonell. 

“Use Frappen, above all things, paints life at first hand. She possesses the true 
artist’s eye; and the Hamburg that could draw from Heine only the most cynical 
and scathing sarcasm has revealed to her a wealth of poetic material.” 


Vol. IV. THE SAGHALIEN CONVICTS AND 
OTHER STORIES. 

“ These stories illustrate life in a quarter of the world with which the reading 
public is but little acquainted. The lover of fiction will find in these pages much 
to delight and instruct. The scenes and characters are all novel but described 
with a degree of art which invests them with something of the familiarity of that 
which has been seen before .” — Philadelphia Item. 


Vol. V. THE SCHOOL OF ART. By Isabel Snow. 

This story is told with wonderful verve, and yet, amid all its swing and rapidity 
of rnovement we pause at times to brush away the ready tear. It is intensely true 
to life, and the atmosphere is nature’s own. 


Vol. VI. A BUNDLE OF LIFE. By John Oliver 
Hobbes (Mrs. Craigie), author of “ Sinner’s Comedy,” 
“ Some Emotions and a Moral,” and “ Study in Temp- 
tations.” 

No work of fiction in the English language contains more brilliant writing in the 
same space. 

The first edition was exhausted on the date of publication, and the second within 
SIX days. 


At the Rising of the Moon. 

By Frank Mathew. Illustrated by Fred. Pegram and 
A. S. Boyd. i2mo, cloth, $1.25. 


“ ‘ At the Rising of the Moon ’ is but a little volume, and its stories are brief and 
not many, but the very heart of Ireland beats in them. One by one the various 
national types appear ; it is a motley company, but every figure abounds in charac- 
ter, and Mr. Mathew, whether by imitation or by grace of similar natural gift, 
makes each one as eflfective as Mr. Kipling himself could make it.” 

— Boston Herald. 

“ They are as true to Irish life as the songs of Tom Moore are.” — Literary World. 

“ In this series of stories and studies the biographer of Father Mathew has done 
for Moher and its people very much what Mr. Barrie has done for Thrums in his 
‘ Idylls.’ The writer brims over with Hibernian hilarity, and his book teems with 
that apparently unconscious humor which is so racy of the soil.” 

— Glasgow Herald. 

“ A volume of gracefully written and interesting sketches of Irish life. Mr. 
Mathew has a delicacy of touch and a certain refinement that add to the value of 
his studies of Irish character.” — World. 

” Ireland has found her Kipling and that is no small good fortune for her. . . . 
The very heart of Ireland beats in these stories. . . . There is a warm welcome 
in store for a dozen such books if they be as good as ‘ At the Rising of the Moon.’ ” 

— Boston Herald. 

“ An attractive collection of Irish stories and studies. The Rev. Peter Flanne^ 
might have been one of Charles Lever’s characters. . . . All the tales are set in 
that minor key to which all true Irish melodies are attuned.” — The Churchman. 

“ The pages bear a ripple of genuine Hibernian feeling, both grave and gay ; and 
the printing and illustrations are excellent.” — Independent. 

“True lovers of Ireland who are homesick for the smell of the ‘ould sod’ will 
find this book very much to their liking.” — Evening Telegraph, Philadelphia. 


The Soul of the Bishop. 

By John Strange Winter (Mrs. Arthur Stannard, 
F.R.S.L.). Handsomely illustrated, with frontispiece of 
author. Cloth, 310 pages, i2mo, $1.25. Paper, 50c. 

An engrossing work which clergymen of all denominations — as well as laymen — 
will do well to read and carefully ponder. 

In her preface the author says: “I have tried to show how a really honest mind 
may. and, alas, too often does, suffer mental and moral shipwreck over those rocks 
which the Church allows to endanger the channel to a harbor neVer easy to navi- 
gate at any time.” 

“ Botli theme and motive are timely, and are artistically developed.” 

— Boston Daily Advertiser. 

“ The book is a noteworthy protest against the retention of outgrown dogmas in 
the constitution of any church .” — Literary World. 

“ A book of unmistakable force. The situation is perfectly natural ; not an over- 
strained note appears in W.."— Philadelphia Ledger. 


cheap Jack Zita. 

By S. Baring-Gould, author of “ Mehalah,” “Judith,” 
“John Herring,” etc. 121110, cloth, finely illustrated, $1.25. 

Paper, 50c. 

Apart from his acknowledged skill as a writer Mr. Gould is the highest living 
authority on the wonderful fen-life in the Lincolnshire marshes, and the book is 
as full of strong local color as “ Lorna Doone,” which it somewhat resembles. 


The Doomswoman. 

By Gertrude Atherton, author of “Hermia Suydam,” 
“ Los Cerritos,” “A Question of Time,” etc. i6mo, 
cloth, ornamental, $1.00. Paper, 25c. 

“Full of incident, passion, color, and character.” — The Critic. 

“ A powerful dramatic representation of old California life.” 

— Lippincoit' s Magazine. 

“Conspicuously superior to any novel that any Californian has done.” 

— Ambrose Bierce in San Francisco Examiner. 

" ‘ The Doomswoman ’ is an immensely clever book, and there are pages in it that 
deserve to live as being some of the ablest contributions to the literature of the 
human emotions which the English literature contains.” — Paris Figaro. 

“Mrs. Atherton has given to us a picture of the manners, social life, traditions, 
feuds, and ambitions of a by-gone time and a virtually by-gone race. . . . ‘ The 
Doomswoman ’ is not only an interesting and vivid story, but a book of permanent 
histoRical value.” — Boston Times. 

“ The characters in the book are very fine. The action is rapid and interesting. 
The descriptions are artistic, and all is clothed with a charming style. It is a de- 
lightful book.” — New Orleans Picayune. 

“ It is in the realized fulness and complex emotions of life that Mrs. Atherton’s 
strenrth lies. Chonita, ‘ The Doomswoman,’ is a character whose completeness 
coula be surpassed by few authors. A breathing reality created by a master hand ; 
and she is not less real because she is an uncommon, an original character. This 
is high praise but it is not too high.” — Vanity Fair, London. 

“ The novel is full of a vivid life and personality, of freshness and fascination, of 
pictures which will not easily be forgotten. ... It is by far 

the most picturesque and characteristic showing that has been made of that time 
(the old Spanish days).” — Literary World. 

“ Though Mrs. Atherton’s descriptions of the land and of the estates, of the dwell- 
ings and of the inhabitants, of their christenings and marriages with the joyous 
accompaniments of feast and dance, are vivid and interesting, yet her novel has in 
it an abundance of thought, a critical intellectuality, an acuteness in character 
analysis that give it abundant worth even were it not placed in an attractive set- 
ting of unusual scenery.” — Public Opinion. 

“Mrs. Atherton’s realism can be praised because it is natural and not pretended. 
Given the strange atmosphere in which her characters move, they are men and 
women with the virtues and failings of genuine people. Her descriptions of social 
life in California are-vivid, and they have the effect of dissipating some of those 
ceremonious forms which were crystallized in much old-fashionea fiction respect- 
ing the Spaniards in America.” — New York Tribune. 

'* A novel of early Californian and Mexican days before the discovery of gold. 
Told with force and vivid effect.” — Baltimore Sun. 


The Larger Life. 

By Henry A. Adams, M.A. (for some time rector of the 
Cathedral Church of St. Paul, Buffalo, and the Church of 
the Redeemer, New York). With a very fine portrait of 
the author. i2mo, cloth, gilt top, $i.oo. 

This is Father Adams’s reply to the storm of criticism which broke over him upon 
his becoming a Catholic. Dedicated “ To my Former Parishioners.” 

“ The personality behind these eight sermons is an intense one. The sermons 
themselves are stirring and impressive and calculated to do much good.” 

— Public Opinion. 

“ The almost electrical energy of his spoken addresses is in the type itself. The 
eight sermons on ‘The Larger Life’ are a marvel of condensation. The old 
Carlyleish way of putting truths appears everywhere.” — Buffalo News. 

“Clear, thoughtful, and stimulating.” — Congregalionalist. 

“ Every line in the work is worthy of a careful perusal ; the sermons are models of 
pulpit eloquence.” — Evening Hem, Philadelphia. 

“ These sermons are strange discourses, not such as are commonly preached any- 
where; earnest and good, and well adapted to make an impression, but chiefly 
valuable for their heat and stimulation. The book contains a fine portrait of the 
author.” — Bosto?i Herald. 

“ The force and sincerity of these sermons are two very decisive qualities.” 

— Boston Beacon. 

“These sermons trace out broad theories of Christianity and follow no stated 
creed, so that while the author has been impelled to change the form of his own 
belief the spirit of the essays rises above sectarian limits.” — Boston Times. 


A Chronicle of Small Beer. 

By John Reid. Illustrated. i2mo, cloth, $i.oo. Paper, 25c. 

A most delightful work treating of Scotch life and character, not to be surpassed 
by James Matthew Barrie in his “ Little Minister.” The description of “ The Fight 
in the Coup ” is finer than that of “Tom Brown’s School-days.” 

“ The book is one that will delight the heart of a boy, but will be equally successful 
in finding older readers, for it has a flavor that carries one back instinctively to his 
age of pranks and air castles. Of the tw'enty sketches in the book not one is with- 
out interest. . . . The book is well gotten up, illustrated and handsomely 
bound.” — Lowell Daily Courier. 


Oriole’s Daughter. 

By Jessie Fothergill, author of “The First Violin,” etc. 
375 pages, i2mo, $1.25. 

Like “Cosmopolis” this most interesting book — the last written before her death 
by the gifted author of “ The First Violin ” — opens in the City of Rome, and as in 
the case of Bourgit's chef d’aeuvre it is the moral miasma of that tainted city 
which threatens to the point of destruction one or two very beautiful lives. 

The story is one of w'ild oats sown in youth and reaped in middle life in bitter 
penitence of soul ; of an innocent and beautiful daughter sacrificed in marriage by 
an unnatural mother to a wealthy and repulsive roub ; of a human soul seared into 
indifference by the horrid contact, and of a great temptation — the natural outcome 
of the situation — escaped as by fire. 

The story is well and clearly told ; it is full of exquisite passages, is delicately 
written, and absolutely free from any suspicion of grossness. 


A SEVENTH CHILD 


BY 

JOHN STRANGE WINTER, 

Author of “ Booties’ Baby,” ” Soul of the Bishop,” Etc. 


i2mo. Cloth, $1.00. Paper binding, 50c. 


John Strange Winter’s novels always receive a 
hearty welcome wherever the English language is 
spoken. This new novel, entitled “A Seventh 
Child,” is a masterpiece and will add to the 
author’s brilliant reputation. The story is com- 
plicated and its interest intensified by the intro- 
duction of a heroine, who — as the Seventh Child 
^ — is endowed with the “uncanny” gift of second 
sight. The possessor of that weird quality is a 
source of vast apprehension to the characters in 
the book as well as to the readers. The book will 
stir the leaven of superstition in the breast of all 
who read it. 


A BUNDLE OF LIFE — Continued. 

“ To my mind Mrs. Craigie (John Oliver Hobbes) is the cleverest of all the women 
who have sprung into fame within the last two or three years. . . If Sarah 

Grand had Mrs. Craigie’s condensation ‘ The Heavenly Twins ’ would be a much 
stronger book. , . . Mrs. Craigie is a cynic, and I have heard that her cynicism 

comes from her own experiences in life, which have not been of the happiest 
. . . Mrs. Craigie is especially clever at epigram ; her books are epigrammatic 
from the first to the last page, and in this form of literature she is much more strik- 
ing than Oscar Wilde. With Oscar Wilde it seems to be a cultivated cleverness • 
with Mrs. Craigie it is entirely spontaneous, and is her way of looking at things! 
. . . The book must be read, and it will be read, for it is one of the brighiesi 
that has been published in many a lon^ day. ... I think that I have proved in 
the foregoing that ‘A Bundle of Life’ is well worth reading, and that Mrs. Craigie 
or John Oliver Hobbes if one prefers, is a woman of sparkling though sarcastic 
wit.”— J eannette L. Gilder in the York World. 

“ That brilliant woman who chooses to be known as ‘John Oliver Hobbes ’ is one of 
the wittiest of modern writers, and her latest tale will be keenly relished for its 
piquancy and its clever dramatizing of a little comedy of the heart.” 

— Boston Beacon. 

“ The book contains a wealth of expressive word-painting, and will be warmly 
welcomed as one of the gems of the Pseudonym Library, which is one of the choic- 
est series published. The Pseudonym Library represents convenient size, excep- 
tional good taste, and a nameless attraction which wins one the moment its cover 
strikes the view. The type is a delight to the eye, and the whole book holds a 
charm over the aesthetic sense.” — Boston Ideas. 

“ How often in our own experiences have we found it difficult to decide whether 
some important change in the tide of our affairs is brought about by ‘ a dispensation 
of Providence or the interference of Satan ! ’ And, in the society of to-day, are there 
not Lady Lurewells and Mrs. Portcullises who can ‘dress up a sin so religiously 
that the devil lu 'iself would hardly know it of his own making ? ’ ” 

• — Philadelphia Evening Bulletin. 

‘‘ A well-written and interesting story.” — Christian at Work. 

‘‘John Oliver Hobbes’ masterpiece is clearly ‘ A Bundle of Life.’ ” 

— Boston Daily Advertiser. 


Gossip of the Caribbees; 

Or, Sketches of Anglo-West Indian Life. By 
William R. H. Trowbridge, Jr. Illustrated. i2mo, 
illuminated cloth, $1.25, Paper, 50c. 

'These sketches of Anglo-West Indian life have an unmistakable flavor of Mr. 
Kipling about them. . . . They are interesting bits of colony life, told for the 
most part in graphic, forceful style, with occasional touches of rather daring 
realism.” — Literary World. 

" In a succession of slight sketches or short stories Mr. Trowbridge deals with the 
Windward group of the West Indian Islands in its social aspects. . . _ . ‘ Mrs. 
Clarendon’s Dance’ is an excellent piece of social comedy, and there is a great 
deal of capital broad farce in the misfortunes that befall the ambitious hostess 
whose little dance proves a dismal failure. ‘ The Old Portrait ’ is a thrilling ro- 
mance of the last century, which nevertheless seems to bear internal evidence of 
keeping pretty close to actual facts. ‘ For the Sake of the Cross ” is a really power- 
ful tale of noble self-sacrifice.” — Saturday Review, London. 

“ The book opens out a new and unexplored region to the majority of American 
readers, and is intensely interesting both in style and subject matter.” 

— Evening Post, Chicago. 

“ The sketches are very interesting and give one a clear and comprehensive idea of 
the topography, climate,- manners, and customs of Anglo-West Indian lilein Barba- 
does and the adjacent colonies.” — Town Topics. 

“These short stories contain a pleasing admixture of light satire and unaffected 
pathos.” — The Athenaum, London. 


Fragments in Baskets. 

By Mrs. W. BoYD CARPENTER (Wife of the Bishop of 
Ripon). Beautifully illustrated. i2mo, cloth, elegantly 
embossed, $i.oo. \yust Published. 

These fragments comprise a series of twelve exquisite apologues, attractive alike 
to youth and age. A daintily illustrated volume admirably adapted for presen- 
tation. 


Athletics as a Means of Physical 
Training. 

By Theo. C. Knauff. Richly illustrated. i2mo, 
cloth, $2.00. 

There are many text-books in every department of athletics from which one may 
learn rules, or how to become an expert by making a business of a pleasure. This 
book, however, covers the whole broad field of athletics, and with sufficient detail 
not only to determine the value of each pursuit as a mea^is of physical culture, but 
to demonstrate what is excess and to ascertain what has been done, or what may 
still remain to be accomplished, by the average business man who cannot devote a 
lifetime to the cultivation of athletics, and who naturally desires every hour which 
he is able to devote to it should be one of continuous progress, and not of wasted, 
ill-regulated efforts, which are oft times disastrous to his physical well being. 

The peculiar needs and opportunities for women in the same relation receive 
attention. 

The work is treated very exhaustively, and in an interesting and attractive form. 
It has not been written from a medical point of view, but with the object of fur- 
nishing a popular work. The object has been to create a standard authority, and 
we think that the public will agree with us that it has been accomplished. 

The volume has a wealth of original illustrations, including many life studies of 
great value. Some of these will appeal very strongly to those who have been neg- 
lecting the care of their own bodies, with the result of impaired health and vitality, 
as well as lessened capacity to enjoy life. 


Americans in Europe. 

By One of Them. i2mo, cloth, $i.oo. Paper, 50c. 

This remarkable volume, which casts so strong and at times so fierce a light on 
American life abroad, and the evils to which it is cotistantly exposed, is, beyond 
all doubt, destined to make a very great stir, and especially among travelers and 
those who are already to some extent familiar with the conditions of existence in 
European capitals. 

The author, whose identity is onlv withheld temporarily, has had an unequaled 
opportunity of acquainting himself with his subject, and the result is a trenchant 
and powerful work without a single dull line within its covers. The book is abso- 
lutely indispensable to all contemplating a European residence for themselves or 
relatives. 

A work of remarkable power. The writer is absolutely fearless in his denuncia- 
tion of American practices abroad which he condemns. 

“ The author of ‘ Americans in Europe ’ is to be lauded for his patriotism.” 

— New York Times. 

“ A book that is sure to have a sale and to be talked about .”— York Herald. 
“ The author has pungent chapters on the dangers to which American young men 
and girls are exposed in Pans when they go there to study art and music, and 
mothers are warned not to send their daughters to the American Sunday-school at 
the French capital, that institution being denounced as a hot-bed of flirtation.” 

— Boston Beacon. 


i^tlilet;ic?»'Ph^^iDalGuIl:Di<B 

BY 

THEO. C. KNAUFF. 


Cloth 12mo, pp. 4:4:2, Illustrations 114. Price $2.00 


The work is profusely illustrated with characteristic and interesting 
figures. It is marked by evidence of much practical knowledge. — New 
York Times. 

The author has enrolled himself among the benefactors of mankind. 
He furnishes valuableinformationupon gymnasium work, cycling, archery, 
field sports and out-door sports generally. The book should be read by 
everyone desiring a body harmoniously developed. — Public Opinion. 

The Illustrations are as diversified as the text and both are excel- 
lent. — New York Telegram. 

The book covers the whole field of athletic exercises. — Philadelphia 
Enquirer. 

One can seldom find a book which more concisely and clearly 
covers the whole broad field, than does this volume of Mr. Knauff’s. — 
Chicago Inter-Ocean. 

A book which those interested in the training and development of 
the human body will find of the greatest value. — Boston Daily Adver- 
tiser. 


This book is the most complete and comprehensive, 
the most intelligent and the most valuable work of its 
kind ever published. There is no branch of athletics and 
no pastime upon which it does not speak authoritatively^ 
The attitude of the author towards his subject may be 
described in his opening remark; “If the reader wants 
to know how to get exercise which will enable 
him to do more work in working hours by means of 
more play in play hours that is exactly what we 
propose to tell him. 


THE 


UplTEMpEl^ED Wlp. 

BY 

JOANNA E. WOOD. 


12mo, Clothf $1.00; Paper hifidingf 50c. 


Miss Wood’s book describes the sacrifices of a 
heroic woman in defense of an unworthy ol ;ect, 
and the refinement of cruelty which the false 
position which she occupies entails upon herself 
is depicted with a skill of delineation which makes 
this work not unworthy of being ranked with 
Hawthorne’s “Scarlet Letter .” — Philadelphia 
Press. 

Miss Wood is a new writer, but she bids fair to 
take a very high rank in the world of letters. In 
her portrayal of village life and character she is 
not surpassed among modern writers. 


GavalfiJ Life in Tent-"' Field 

— BY — 

MRS. ORSEMUS B. BOYD. 


12m,o, Cloth, $1.00. Paper Pinding, 50 cents. 


MORE FASCINATING THAN THE 

MOST SENSATIONAL FICTION. 


An intensively interesting narrative of army frontier life 
in Nevada, California, Arizona, New Mexico and 
Texas, ending with the death of Captain Boyd from hard- 
ships endured while in pursuit of a band of marauding 
Apaches. It is also, incidentally, the story of a noble and 
stainless life, darkened at the outset by the shameful 

CRIME OF A BROTHER CADET AT WEST POINT. 


From Current Literature of June, 1894. 

Mrs. O. B. Boyd, the author of Cavalry Life in Tent and Field has 
had an experience of “roughing it” on the plains as the wife of a cavalry 
olBcer, such as has probably not fallen to the lot of any other tenderly 
nurtured woman. No one to look at Mrs. Boyd would imagine she had 
endured the hardships and dangers of frontier life for a period of fifteen 
years, and that a score and more of years ago she was a wanderer in the 
wilds of Arizona, in hourly terror of Indians, and so destitute of every 
element of comfort t.iat in moving with her husband to far outlying 
military stations she was compelled, for security and comfort, to have 
her infant child carried upwards of a thousand miles in a champagne 
basket. It is safe to say that mentally and physically Mrs. Boyd has 
endured hardships which have not been surpassed in the experience 
of any American officer’s wife. * * * The book is a wonderful 

record of frontier life as seen through the eyes of a Cavalry officer’swife. 
No more descriptive work has appeared in recent years, and apart from 
this the book has a value far beyond the mere skill of the narrative, as 
those who are acquainted with the melancholy history of the late 
C>*ptain Boyd will readily understand. 


SAN DOW’S 


Method of Physical Culture, 

FOR MEN, WOMEN AND CHILDREN. 

EDITED BY 

Capt. G. MERCER ADAM. 

^ IsTEW EIDITZOZT. 


A large Octavo, Handsomely bound in cloth and embell- 
ished with 80 superb half-tone illustrations. 


Price S2.00. 


Every physician should study this book, every athletci 
should master its instructions, and every young person, 
male or female, can find in its pages valuable hints for the 
proper regulation 'of their daily routine. — The Spirit oj 
the Times. 

A handsome book, strikingly and beautifully illustra- 
ted. — New York Sun. 

A remarkably handsome volume with a profusion of 
Illustrations. — Boston Daily Advertiser. 

A splendid volume, superbly illukrated. Its illustra- 
tions are worth many times its cost. — Baltimore American. 

The reproduction of photographs of Mr. Sandow 
present outlines and dimensions that attain the classic. — 
Philadelphia Ettquirer. 

We welcome just such a book as this, because it will 
stir the ambitions of tens of thousands. — N. V. Herald. 



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